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‘AND  WHEN  HECTOR  MAC  INTYRE  , . . HAD  PLAYED  THE  PEOPLE  IN  ” 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

WILLIAM  BLACK 

AUTHOR  OP 

“DONALD  ROSS  OF  HEIMRA  ” UA  PRINCESS  OF  THULE  ” 
“STAND  FAST,  CRAIG-ROYSTON  ” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  & BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1892 


WILLIAM  BLACK’S  NOVELS. 


LIBRARY  EDITION. 

23  vols. , 12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25  per  vol.  Complete  Sets,  $26  00. 


A DAUGHTER  OF  HETH. 

A PRINCESS  OF  THULE. 

DONALD  ROSS  OF  HEIMRA. 
GREEN  PASTURES  AND  PICCA- 
DILLY. 

IN  FAR  LOCHABER. 

IN  SILK  ATTIRE. 

JUDITH  SHAKESPEARE.  Illus- 
trated by  Abbey. 

KILMENY. 

MACLEOD  OF  DARE.  Illustrated. 
MADCAP  VIOLET. 

PRINCE  FORTUNATUS.  Ill’d. 
SABINA  ZEMBRA. 

YOLANDE. 

Published  by  HARPER  & 

A ny  of  the  above  works  will  be 
part  of  the  United  States,  Canada. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  Illustrated. 
STAND  FAST,  CRAIG-ROYSTON 1 
Illustrated. 

SUNRISE. 

THAT  BEAUTIFUL  WRETCH.  Ill’d. 
THE  MAGIC  INK,  AND  OTHER 
STORIES.  Illustrated. 

THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES  OF 
A HOUSE-BOAT.  Illustrated. 
THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES  OF 
A PHAETON. 

THREE  FEATHERS. 

WHITE  HEATHER 
WHITE  WINGS.  Illustrated. 
Illustrated. 

BROTHERS,  New  York. 

sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid , to  any 
or  Mexico , on  receipt  of  the  price. 


ttBT  For  Paper  Edition  of  William  Black's  Novels,  see  Harper’s  Cata- 
logue, mailed  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  Ten  Cents. 


Copyright,  1S92,  by  IIabpf.b  & Brothers. 


n%6s 


kZ3 

6£6?ne. 

tg-?£ 1 


CONTENTS 


TAGE 

The  Magic  Ink, i 

A Hallowe’en  Wraith, 75 

Nanciebel:  A Tale  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  . • . 117 


v 

V 

<N 

Vi 

\ 


801.675 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


AND  WHEN  HECTOR  MAC  INTYRE  . . . HAD  PLAYED 
THE  PEOPLE  IN” 

FROM  OUT  OF  THE  DUSK  OF  THE  WALL”  . . . 

I WILL  SEARCH  MY  POCKETS” 

FLORA  AND  HE  SITTING  TOGETHER  IN  THE  STERN 
OF  THE  BOAT,  AND  ALL  OF  THEM  SINGING  THE 
‘ FEAR  A BHATA  ’ ” 

SHE  TRIED  TO  LIFT  HER  WASTED  HAND  TO  MEET 
HIS” 

THE  TWO  FIGURES  WERE  WELL  WRAPPED  UP,  FOR 
THE  NIGHT  WAS  COLD  ” 


Frontispiece 
Facing  page  78 
“ 82 

“ 102 

“ 114 

“ 120 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  ROBBERY 

At  the  very  busiest  hour  of  the  afternoon  a 
young  man  of  about  one-and-twenty  was  making 
his  way  along  the  crowded  thoroughfare  of  the 
Strand,  carrying  in  his  hand  a satchel  that  had 
stamped  on  it  in  gold  letters,  “Cripps*  Bank.” 
He  was  rather  a good-looking  young  fellow, 
with  pale,  refined  features,  a sensitive  mouth, 
jet-black  hair,  and  mild,  contemplative  gray 
eyes.  Eyes  were  meant  for  seeing;  but  some- 
times they  refuse  to  perform  their  office ; at  this 
precise  moment,  for  example,  this  young  bank- 
clerk  beheld  nothing  of  St.  Clement’s  Church, 
nor  of  the  frontage  of  the  Law  Courts,  nor  yet 
of  the  fearful  wild-fowl  that  marks  the  site  of 
Temple  Bar.  What  he  did  see  before  him — here 
in  the  heart  of  the  great  commercial  centre  of 
the  world — was  a dream-picture  of  a small  slate- 
quarrying  village  in  the  west  of  Wales,  its  rows 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


of  cottages,  its  terraced  black  cliffs,  its  squalid 
little  harbor,  and  the  ruffled  blue  sea  beyond. 
And  if  the  schoolmaster’s  daughter — Miss  Wini- 
fred— she  of  the  raven  hair,  and  the  violet  eyes, 
and  the  pleasant  smile — were  to  come  along  by 
those  cottages,  and  past  the  Wesleyan  chapel, 
and  go  away  up  into  the  wooded  vale  running 
inland,  so  that  she  might  secure  a perfect  soli- 
tude in  which  to  read  her  last  letter  from  Lon- 
don? Llanly  is  a commonplace  little  hamlet; 
and  the  slate-quarries  are  not  picturesque;  but 
youth  and  love  combined  can  throw  a mystic 
glamour  over  anything.  What  was  this  song 
that  was  running  through  his  head?  He  had 
got  the  words,  such  as  they  were,  scribbled  out 
all  right ; and  now  he  was  seeking  for  an  air  for 
them — something  pensive  and  wistful,  and  yet 
not  too  sad  either : 

Sweet  Winnie  Davies,  down  by  the  sea, 

Sweet  Winnie  Davies,  do  you  still  think  of  me? 

Do  you  think  of  the  long  days  you  and  I together 
Went  wandering  by  Llanly  in  the  fair  summer  weather? 

So  the  words  began ; but  they  were  of  less  im- 
portance; it  was  the  setting  of  them — to  some 
air  worthy  of  sweet  Winnie  Davies  herself — that 
more  particularly  olaimed  his  attention.  For 
this  young  Welshman,  his  Celtic  nature  all  com- 
pact of  imagination,  and  poetry,  and  romantic 


THE  ROBBERY 


5 


sympathy  and  sentiment,  was  chiefly  a musician ; 
his  tentative  performances  had  been  in  that 
sphere;  there  also  lay  his  far-reaching  hopes. 
That  he  was  also  a bank-clerk  may  be  ascribed 
to  the  irony  of  fate ; but  he  did  not  complain ; 
and  sweet  Winnie  Davies  had  considered  him  a 
very  sensible  young  man  in  accepting  this  post 
when  it  was  offered  him,  seeing  that  he  was  anx- 
ious above  all  things  to  get  to  London.  As  to 
whether  he  carried  with  him  a conductor’s  baton 
in  his  knapsack,  who  was  to  foresee? 

When  this  young  Arthur  Hughes  reached  the 
offices  of  the  Temple  Bar  Branch  of  the  Lon- 
don and  Westminster  Bank,  he  entered  by  the 
heavily-swinging  doors,  and  approached  the 
counter.  There  were  a good  many  people  com- 
ing and  going ; the  clerks  at  the  various  desks 
were  occupied.  Young  Hughes  perceived  that 
he  would  have  to  wait  his  turn  before  he  could 
get  his  business  transacted,  so  he  placed  his 
satchel  on  the  counter  beside  him,  and  remained 
absently  attentive,  if  the  phrase  is  permissible. 
There  is  a hushed  somnolence  about  the  atmo- 
sphere of  a bank,  a drowsy  whispering  of  pens 
and  shuffling  of  feet,  that  invites  to  contempla- 
tion when  one  has  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  And 
when  one  has  been,  but  a few  seconds  before  (if 
only  dream-wise),  in  a little  Welsh  village — 
looking  at  the  harbor,  and  the  quarries,  and  the 


6 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


cottages,  and  the  slim  little  figure  of  the  school- 
master’s daughter — it  is  perhaps  easy  to  return 
thither.  There  are  times  and  seasons  when  the 
imagination  becomes  a powerful  necromancer; 
hey,  presto!  and  the  bare  walls  of  this  place  of 
business  suddenly  vanish,  and  in  their  stead 
there  stands  revealed  once  more  that  Welsh 
landscape — the  cliffs  and  woods,  the  scattered 
cottages,  the  breadth  of  sea  beyond.  But  it  is 
with  that  solitary  figure  he  is  wholly  concerned ; 
he  follows  her  with  entranced  eyes,  watching 
every  grace  and  charm  of  movement,  and  glad 
that  the  sunlight  is  around  her.  Nor  does  she 
seem  at  all  downcast,  notwithstanding  that  her 
sweetheart  is  so  far  away.  On  the  contrary, 
there  is  an  abundant  cheerfulness  in  her  expres- 
sion ; her  step  is  free  and  light ; perhaps  she  is 
singing  to  herself — only  the  immeasurable  dis- 
tance deadens  the  sound.  And  now,  what  is 
this?  She  pauses  in  her  aimless  stroll;  she 
turns  and  looks  along  the  road,  as  if  to  make 
sure  there  is  no  one  in  sight;  then  she  produces 
from  her  pocket  a small  hand-mirror,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  scrutinize  her  appearance  in  it.  And  a 
very  pretty  picture  she  undoubtedly  finds  there 
— the  black  eyelashes  and  violet  eyes,  the  clear 
and  fresh  complexion,  the  waving  black  hair; 
and  is  her  vanity  so  great  that  she  must  needs 
smile  and  look  pleased,  and  even  begin  to  talk  to 


THE  ROBBERY 


7 


herself?  Arthur  Hughes  knows  better.  It  is  not 
vanity — nor  anything  like  vanity.  He  can  re- 
member how  she  wrote  to  him  shortly  after  his 
coming  to  London : 

“Will  you  be  desperately  shocked,  dear  Ar- 
thur, if  I tell  you  that  I have  found  a new  compan- 
ion? But  wait  a moment — don’t  be  alarmed! — 
wait  a moment,  and  I will  explain.  The  fact 
is,  I found  myself  so  lonely  after  you  left  that 
I was  absolutely  driven  to  do  something;  and  do 
you  know  what  I did? — I cut  myself  in  two. 
Yes;  I divided  myself  into  two  persons,  my  Or- 
dinary Self  and  my  Other  Self ; and  I find  the 
system  works  admirably.  For  my  Ordinary  Self 
is  a most  commonplace,  uninteresting,  useless 
kind  of  creature — indeed,  indeed,  ’tis  too  true — 
living  a humdrum,  monotonous,  worthless  life, 
with  a sigh  now  and  again  for  certain  things 
that  are  past,  and  another  sigh  for  other  things 
that  are  far  away  in  the  future ; but  my  Other 
Self — ah,  that  is  different! — my  Other  Self  is  the 
young  lady  that  Arthur  praised,  and  petted,  and 
teased,  and  made  much  of:  and  she,  I can  tell 
you,  is  entitled  to  some  consideration!  And 
now,  when  my  Ordinary  Self  takes  my  Other  Self 
out  for  a walk,  don’t  you  understand  that  I have 
some  right  to  be  proud  of  my  companion?  I 
have  got  a little  pocket-mirror,  Arthur;  I go 
away  up  the  Megan  road ; I take  it  out ; and  then 


8 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


the  Ordinary  Winnie  says  ‘Good-morning!’  to 
the  other  Winnie. 

“‘Good-morning,  Miss  Other  One;  let  me  see 
how  you  look.  It  is  of  no  consequence  how  / 
look.  My  appearance  is  of  not  the  least  conse- 
quence to  any  one ; but  you — you  whom  Arthur 
imagined  into  existence — it  is  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance that  you  should  be  trim  and  neat  and 
nice,  for  you  know  he  is  very  particular.  Yes — 
pretty  well — not  so  bad — the  sea-shell  brooch  on 
the  black  velvet  band  is  what  he  approved.  The 
saffron  frill  might  be  a little  broader ; attend  to 
that.  Now,  go  on,  and  tell  me  all  the  things 
he  has  said  about  you.’ 

“‘All  of  them?’  says  my  Other  Self.  ‘Well, 
he  has  called  me  good,  and  sweet,  and  kind,  and 
charming,  and  good-tempered,  and  clever,  and 
affectionate,  and  true,  and  tender,  and  wonderful, 
and  delightful ’ 

“ ‘ It  is  not  surprising  you  should  give  your-  * 
self  airs!’ 

“ ‘ and  stupid,  and  silly,  and  perverse,  and 

ill-natured,  and  cross,  and  unyielding,  and  un- 
just, and  quarrelsome,  and  obstinate ’ 

“‘Not  so  much  to  boast  of,  after  all!’  says  my 
Ordinary  Self.  ‘ But  now  let  me  hear  some  of 
the  things  you  have  said  about  him,  to  himself, 
or  to  yourself,  or  to  other  people.’ 

“‘Oh,  no,  you  don’t!’  says  my  Other  Self, 


THE  ROBBERY 


9 


laughing  at  me  from  the  mirror.  ‘Telling’s 
telling.  You  might  go  away  and  write  it  all 
down;  and  send  it  over  to  London;  and  then 
there  would  be  such  an  exhibition  of  vanity  as 
was  never  seen  in  the  world  before.  It  wouldn’t 
be  at  all  wholesome.  You  often  say  things  you 
don’t  quite  mean;  and  it  isn’t  safe  to  put  them 
down  on  paper;  at  the  same  time,  if  Arthur 
were  to  appear  here  just  now — well — I should 
most  likely  ask  you  to  go  away — you  would  not 
be  wanted  here  at  all — and  then,  if  he  and  I were 
left  together,  then  I might  say  some  of  those 
things  over  again.  But  to  have  them  written 
down — no,  thank  you!’ 

“So,  you  see,  dear  Arthur,  the  companion  I 
have  invented — or,  rather,  whom  you  imagined 
into  existence  for  me — is  not  at  all  monotonously 
civil  and  acquiescent ; sometimes  we  have  dread- 
ful quarrels ; but  in  such  cases  my  Ordinary  Self 
is  easily  triumphant ; my  Ordinary  Self  claps  the 
mirror  into  her  pocket — and  then  walks  home 
alone.” 

Thus  it  was  that  Arthur  Hughes,  standing  in 
the  London  and  Westminster  Bank,  and  gazing 
through  the  opaque  walls  at  that  distant  dream- 
land, knew  it  was  no  personal  vanity  that 
prompted  Winnie  Davies  to  carry  a little  hand- 
glass with  her  on  her  solitary  wanderings.  No, 
it  was  rather  a pretty  fancy,  that  lent  charm  and 


IO 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


piquancy  to  many  a letter;  for  sometimes,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  the  Ordinary  Winnie  con- 
siderately allowed  the  Other  Winnie  to  have  far 
the  larger  part  of  the  conversation,  she  merely 
acting  the  part  of  reporter,  and  not  holding  her- 
self responsible  when  any  dark  and  mysterious 
secrets  had  to  be  confessed. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  some  one  touched 
Arthur  Hughes’  arm;  instantly  the  dream-pic- 
ture (that  had  been  before  his  eyes  for  perhaps 
not  more  than  three  seconds  or  so)  disappeared : 
he  was  again  in  the  Strand. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  a voice  close  to 
him,  “but  can  you  direct  me  to  the  London  and 
Counties  Bank?  ” 

Naturally  he  faced  round  to  see  who  the  ques- 
tioner was.  He  found  before  him  a tall,  meagre, 
gray-complexioned  man,  with  an  aquiline  nose, 
steely  eyes,  and  a “goatee;”  and  he  was  just 
about  to  give  the  desired  information  when  some 
curious  instinct  caused  him  to  turn  again,  to  see 
that  his  hand-bag  was  safe.  It  was  gone ! In 
that  brief  instant  it  had  been  snatched  away — no 
doubt  by  a confederate  of  the  American-looking 
stranger.  But  that  was  not  what  Arthur  Hughes 
understood  just  then;  he  thought  of  neither  why 
nor  wherefore ; blank  horror  had  fallen  over 
him;  he  seemed  to  be  drowning  and  choking, 
and  to  have  lost  the  power  of  speech.  The 


THE  ROBBERY 


II 


satchel — and  its  £y,  560  belonging  to  his  em- 
ployers— vanished  into  air : it  was  as  if  he  had 
been  dealt  some  violent  blow,  depriving  him  of 
reason.  His  haggard  eyes  stared  up  and  down; 
the  world  around  him  appeared  strangely  empty ; 
and  then,  as  the  clerk  on  the  other  side  of  the 
counter,  seeing  that  something  was  wrong,  asked 
him  a question,  he  managed  to  stammer  out, 
in  panting  accents: 

“My  bag — there  were  £7,560  in  bank-notes 
in  it — belonging  to  Cripps’ — I had  it  a moment 


The  next  instant  the  truth  flashed  in  upon 
him : he  had  been  robbed — and  the  tall  man  who 
had  touched  him  on  the  arm,  to  distract  his  at- 
tention, was  one  of  the  thieves.  Blindly  and 
wildly  he  made  for  the  swinging-door  and  rushed 
into  the  street.  He  could  easily  recognize  the 
tall  man ; the  confederates  could  not  be  far  away ; 
was  there  not  yet  a frantic  chance  of  recovery? 
But,  alas ! what  was  this  that  confronted  him — 
this  endless  surging  sea  of  human  beings  into 
which  those  two  had  disappeared?  He  ran  this 
way  and  that ; he  hurriedly  searched  the  hall  of 
the  Law  Courts  opposite;  he  glanced  breath- 
lessly in  at  the  bars  of  the  neighboring  taverns — 
but  with  an  ever-increasing  and  terrible  con- 
sciousness that  his  pursuit  was  hopeless,  that  al- 
ready the  thieves  were  well  away  with  their 


12 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


booty,  and  that  a calamity  too  awful  to  be  calcu- 
lated or  even  thought  of  had  befallen  him.  It 
had  all  happened  so  rapidly  as  to  be  quite  in- 
credible. He  kept  trying  to  assure  himself  that 
it  was  impossible.  Why,  only  a few  minutes 
ago  he  had  nothing  more  important  to  think  of 
than  the  setting  of  a song  for  Winifred  Davies. 
The  hand-bag  must  be  somewhere — somewhere 
near : there  may  have  been  a mistake.  And  so 
he  went  quickly  back  to  the  bank. 

The  cashier  to  whom  he  had  formerly  spoken 
was  engaged ; but  in  his  agony  of  haste  he  made 
bold  to  interrupt. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,”  he  said  breathlessly, 
“but — but  have  you  seen  anything  yet  of  my 
bag?  I — I had  it  only  a few  moments  ago — 
here — here  on  this  counter ” 

The  cashier  looked  up  from  his  checks. 

“Your  bag?  No.  Have  you  lost  it?  ” 

“It  must  have  been  stolen — only  a few  mo- 
ments ago!”  he  exclaimed;  “here — just  where 
I am  standing.  I set  it  on  the  counter — some 
one  spoke  to  me,  and  I turned  for  a moment. 
It  cannot  be  in  the  bank,  then?  They  must 
have  stolen  it ! ” 

“If  that  is  so,”  said  the  cashier,  “you’d  better 
jump  into  a hansom  and  drive  along  to  Scotland 
Yard.” 

“ But  they  cannot  have  gone  far ” 


THE  ROBBERY 


13 


He  rushed  again  into  the  street,  and  with  dis- 
tracted eyes  looked  everywhere  around,  and 
looked  in  vain:  the  dread  thing  was  that  this 
moving  phantasmagoria  was  full  of  features,  but 
no  one  of  them  of  any  import  to  him.  The 
pavements  showed  him  nothing;  the  cab-rank 
showed  him  nothing ; the  passing  omnibuses 
took  no  heed  of  him.  He  hurried  hither  and 
thither,  searching  the  many  places  he  had 
searched  a few  moments  before — the  bars  of  the 
adjacent  taverns,  the  entrance  to  the  Law  Courts, 
and  what-not ; but  nowhere  could  he  find  any  one 
resembling  the  man  who  had  asked  him  for  the 
whereabouts  of  the  London  and  Counties.  And 
at  last  conviction  and  despair  confronted  him, 
and  would  not  be  denied.  The  money  was  gone. 
No  one  would  believe  the  improbable  tale  he 
would  have  to  tell  of  the  manner  of  its  disappear- 
ance. There  would  be  a prosecution — conviction 
— a prison ; disgrace  would  fall  on  his  old  father, 
the  white-haired  Wesleyan  minister,  whose  chief 
pride  in  life  was  his  only  son.  And  as  for  Wini- 
fred Davies  ? Well,  she  had  made  many  promises 
before  he  left  Llanly,  but  she  never  undertook 
to  correspond  with  a jail-bird. 

Now,  if  in  this  sudden  and  terrible  crisis  Ar- 
thur Hughes  had  managed  to  keep  his  wits  about 
him,  he  would  have  perceived  that  the  best,  the 
only,  thing  for  him  to  do,  was  to  go  straight 


14 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


away  back  to  Cripps’,  tell  the  officials  of  the  bank 
(whether  they  believed  him  or  not)  precisely 
what  had  occurred,  and  let  them  place  the  whole 
matter  at  once  in  the  hands  of  the  police.  But 
this  young  man  was  of  a highly  nervous,  sensi- 
tive, high-strung  temperament;  his  imagination 
magnified  dangers,  and  even  created  them ; and, 
above  all,  it  was  not  so  much  of  himself  as  of 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  him  that  he  was 
now  thinking,  so  far  as  he  was  able  to  think. 
And  in  truth  he  was  not  able  to  think  very 
clearly.  Dazed,  bewildered,  desperate,  to  him 
this  roaring  thoroughfare  of  the  Strand  was  a 
dreadful  and  hideous  place;  the  noise  of  the 
cabs  and  carriages,  the  wagons  and  omnibuses, 
seemed  to  stupefy  him;  he  was  driven  to  go 
elsewhere  for  some  brief  space  of  self-commun- 
ion. And  so,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he 
turned  into  one  of  the  narrow  thoroughfares 
leading  down  to  the  Thames  embankment : there 
he  would  find  quietude,  and  a chance  of  realizing 
to  himself  what  this  ghastly  thing  was  that  had 
just  happened,  and  what  its  consequences  were 
likely  to  be. 

But  here  a singular  and  unexpected  little  in- 
cident occurred,  that  he  afterward,  in  less  dis- 
tracted moments,  was  able  to  recall.  Some 
short  distance  down  the  narrow  street  the  way 
was  blocked,  or  nearly  blocked,  by  a number  of 


THE  ROBBERY 


15 


vans  being  loaded;  indeed,  one  of  these  was 
nearly  putting  a summary  end  to  this  young 
man’s  troubles,  for,  being  backed  on  to  the  pave- 
ment, it  swung  round  just  as  he  was  passing, 
and  was  like  to  have  pinned  him  against  the 
wall.  More  by  quick  instinct  than  by  conscious 
effort  he  managed  to  avoid  it ; but  in  doing  so  he 
ran  full  tilt  against  a stranger,  whom  he  knocked 
over.  He  was  very  sorry.  He  raised  the  man  up. 
He  did  not  notice  the  swift  malevolent  glance 
of  the  two  dull  black  eyes  of  this  little  yellow- 
skinned person,  nor  yet  the  change  to  a fawning 
obsequiousness  that  almost  instantly  came  over 
the  man’s  manner.  The  street  was  muddy  after 
rain ; this  foreigner — Malay,  Chinese,  Hindoo, 
whatever  he  was — took  out  a handkerchief,  and 
began  to  clean  his  clothes  after  a fashion. 

“I’m  very  sorry,”  Arthur  Hughes  said. 
“ The  man  in  charge  of  the  van  did  not  call  out 
until  it  was  too  late — I did  not  see  you  were  on 
the  other  side — I’m  exceedingly  sorry ” 

But  the  baleful  fire  had  vanished  from  those 
small,  dull  black  eyes. 

“Oh,  me  solly  too  if  you  solly,”  said  the  little 
foreigner,  regarding  the  young  man.  “We 
make  fiends  now.  Me  show  you  we  make 
fiends ; me  give  you  little  plesent.  See ! ” 

It  was  a small  ink-bottle  he  produced — an  or- 
dinary-looking thing. 


1 6 THE  MAGIC  INK 

“Take  it — yes,  yes,  make  fiends,”  he  said. 
“ Make  fiends ! Me  solly  if  yon  solly.  English 
good  people — kind  people.” 

Well,  in  other  circumstances,  Arthur  Hughes 
would  doubtless  have  declined  to  take  an  ink- 
bottle  or  any  similar  thing  from  an  entire  stran- 
ger encountered  accidentally  in  the  streets  of 
London ; but  in  his  present  tragic  case  he  was 
quite  indifferent.  He  was  bewildered;  he  did 
not  understand ; only,  the  man  seemed  anxious 
he  should  accept  the  little  present ; and  it  was  a 
token  of  good-will  from  one  whom  he  had  un- 
intentionally injured.  So,  hardly  looking  at  it, 
and  thinking  nothing  of  it,  he  accepted  it,  put  it 
in  his  pocket,  thanked  the  Eastern-looking  per- 
son, and  blindly  went  on  his  way.  What  hap- 
pened to  him  in  the  matter  of  small  trifles  was 
of  little  moment  now. 

Down  on  the  embankment,  near  to  one  of  the 
stations  on  the  Underground  Railway,  he  saw  a 
policeman ; and  he  regarded  him  with  a strange 
sensation  of  fear.  There  was  another  man  driv- 
ing a mud-sweeping  machine ; and  him  he  envied 
with  a bitter  heart. 

“ How  little  you  know  of  your  own  happiness ! ” 
he  was  saying,  almost  in  reproach.  “Perched 
up  there,  you  are  as  proud  as  any  king  on  any 
throne.  You  have  nothing  to  dread.  The  law 
cannot  touch  you.  Your  conscience  is  clear. 


THE  ROBBERY  1 7 

You  might  be  singing  for  very  joy  if  you  only 
knew.” 

For  this  hypersensitive  young  man,  in  the 
first  shock  of  his  alarm  and  consternation,  had 
come  to  regard  himself  as  being  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  a criminal.  He  was  convinced 
that  the  people  at  the  bank — and  still  more  the 
people  at  Scotland  Yard — would  not  for  a mo- 
ment believe  his  tale  of  the  two  unknown  per- 
sons who  had  spirited  away  his  satchel;  they 
would  assume — and  especially  the  people  at 
Scotland  Yard  would  assume — that  he  had  se- 
creted the  money  for  his  own  uses  and  invented 
this  cock-and-bull  story  about  the  mysterious 
thieves.  Nor  did  he  perceive  that  he  was  at  this 
moment  doing  his  very  best  to  lend  color  to  such 
a charge.  He  was  putting  himself  into  the  po- 
sition of  an  absconding  clerk.  Had  he  gone 
boldly  back  to  the  bank,  told  his  story,  and  chal- 
lenged inquiry,  the  situation  would  no  doubt 
have  been  very  unpleasant  for  a time,  but  prob- 
ably no  harm  would  have  come  to  him  in  the 
end.  But  in  the  overwhelming  dismay  that  fell 
upon  him  on  his  discovering  his  loss,  going  back 
to  the  bank  seemed  to  him  to  mean  nothing  else 
than  being  confronted  with  detectives — arrest — 
trial — perhaps  a prison.  A prison ! Even  now, 
as  he  wandered,  stunned  and  demented,  along 
the  embankment,  he  began  with  a morbid  vivid- 


i8 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


ness  to  recall  such  descriptions  of  prison-life  as 
he  had  read.  Formerly  it  used  to  be  rather  a 
jolly  life — hob-nobbing  with  friendly  turnkeys 
— sending  out  for  further  measures  of  claret — 
receiving  relatives  and  acquaintances  and  borrow- 
ing money  from  them — throwing  dice  and  play- 
ing cards — anything  to  pass  the  time.  Perhaps 
that  condition  of  affairs  was  all  over  now;  but 
whether  or  not  was  of  little  consequence  to  him ; 
there  would  be  for  him  but  the  one  result  of  his 
going  to  prison — he  would  never  lift  up  his  head 
again.  His  conscience  might  assure  him  he  was 
innocent;  his  friends  might  pity  and  forgive; 
but  once  the  iron  had  entered  his  soul,  for  him 
there  would  be  no  recovery,  no  restoration  to 
life.  And  the  venerable  old  minister  who  had 
lived  all  these  years  in  the  love  and  respect  and 
affection  of  his  flock — for  him  to  have  his  white 
head  brought  down  to  the  dust:  it  was  too  pit- 
eous to  think  of.  Winnie  Davies:  but  Winnie 
Davies  was  young,  and  pretty,  and  fascinating ; 
a few  years  would  go  by ; new  springs  and  sum- 
mers would  come  to  her,  with  the  thrushes  sing- 
ing in  the  evening  woods,  and  a lover  walking 
by  her  side,  linking  his  arm  with  hers.  And  if 
in  after-times  she  should  ever  think  of  a former 
lover — of  one  who  had  gone  away  to  London  to 
do  great  things  for  her  sake — it  would  be  with 
anger,  it  would  be  without  consideration:  why 


THE  ROBBERY 


19 


had  he  brought  shame  upon  her  in  the  days  of 
her  maidenhood? 

He  was  a sensitive  lad:  in  spite  of  himself 
tears  rose  to  his  eyes. 

“Father — Winnie,”  he  murmured  to  himself, 
“ you  need  not  fear.  It  will  not  come  to  that. 
There  must  be  some  other  way.” 

There  was  another  way,  as  it  seemed  to  his 
unhinged  and  distracted  mind:  a way  sombre 
and  dark,  but  sure.  All  the  forces  of  Scotland 
Yard  combined  could  not  entrap,  or  prosecute, 
or  hale  to  prison,  one  who  had  slipped  quietly 
and  unseen  into  the  deeps  of  the  sea.  No  tele- 
graphing to  foreign  ports  could  secure  the  arrest 
of  him  whose  last  adieu  to  the  world  was  a secret 
confided  to  the  night,  and  the  stars,  and  the  lone 
Atlantic. 

“Do  not  be  afraid,  father,”  he  said  inwardly, 
amid  all  those  wild  and  storm-tossed  emotions  that 
were  now  being  narrowed  down  to  one  stern  re- 
solve. “ There  will  be  no  trial.  There  will  be 
no  reading  of  newspaper  reports — no  whisper- 
ings among  the  members  of  the  congregation. 
Do  not  be  afraid,  Winnie:  no  shame  shall  come 
to  you  through  me.  If  there  had  been  a prose- 
cution, I think  you  would  have  believed  me  in- 
nocent, whatever  happened;  but  there  will  be 
no  prosecution.  Those  I left  behind  me  in 
Llanly  will  have  no  cause  to  hang  their  heads 


20 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


on  my  account.  What  becomes  of  me  is  noth- 
ing.” 

And  this  that  he  was  about  to  give  up — to  save 
his  dear  ones  from  scorn?  Well,  youth  i^ nat- 
urally tenacious  of  life;  it  takes  little  heed  of 
the  pains  and  struggles  and  rebuffs  involved  in 
its  own  eager  aspirations  and  ambitions;  there 
is  the  joy  of  pressing  forward,  to  see  what  the 
world  has  in  store,  to  act  one’s  part,  to  earn  the 
quiet  of  old  age  and  retrospect.  Moreover,  in 
his  case  there  were  other  and  more  idyllic  vis- 
ions, with  Winifred  Davies  as  their  central  figure. 
These  were  harder  to  abandon.  He  thought  of 
by-gone  days ; of  long  walks  by  sea  and  shore,  he 
and  she  together ; of  murmured  confessions  with 
downcast  lashes ; of  eyes  upturned  to  his,  full  of 
love,  and  hope,  and  pride.  For  who  was  it  that 
had  been  most  eager  to  prophesy  great  things  of 
his  going  to  London?  Who  had  boldly  declared 
that  his  “ Cad wallon’s  Army-Call  ” had  more  of 
fire  in  it,  had  a more  martial  and  stately  tread,  than 
even  the  famous  “ Forth  to  the  Battle,”  the  Rhy- 
felgyrch  Cadpen  Morgan , the  war-march  of  Morgan 
of  Morgan og?  Who  had  sung  his  “Bells  of 
Llanly  ” to  the  school  children  at  their  . nnual 
treat,  and  had  maintained,  in  public  hearing,  that 
in  her  opinion  it  was  more  touching  and  sym- 
pathetic, more  characteristically  Welsh,  than  even 
the  “Bells  of  Aberdovey?”  Nay,  had  she  not 


THE  ROBBERY 


21 

gone  further,  and  in  wistful  confidences  to  him- 
self talked  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  of  a young 
conductor  standing  in  front  of  the  great  attentive 
choir,  and  of  a Welsh  girl  seated  among  the  au- 
dience, and  saying  to  herself  (while  trembling  a 
little),  “Ah!  now,  you  English  people  will  hear 
something.  W ales  has  sent  you  many  musicians : 
judge  now,  by  this  Army-Call  of  Cadwallon, 
whether  another  has  not  been  added  to  the  list. 
And  it  was  I who  urged  him  to  go  away  from 
Llanly  and  try  his  fortune  in  the  great  city — 
though  the  parting  was  cruel  enough.” 

Yes;  it  was  much  to  give  up — life,  love,  am- 
bition; but  he  could  see  no  alternative.  The 
only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  guard  against  his 
friends  in  Llanly  forming  any  suspicion  as  to 
the  manner  of  his  disappearance.  He  vrould 
write  a letter  to  his  father,  another  to  Winifred, 
and  another  to  Mr.  Cyrus  Brangwyn — a junior 
partner  in  Cripps’,  who  had  interested  himself 
in  the  young  man’s  behalf;  and  in  these  he 
would  give  such  plausible  explanations  as  he 
could  invent.  Then  a quick  vanishing — and  si- 
lence. Black  night  and  the  Atlantic  would  hold 
his  secret ; his  troubles  would  be  peacefully  over ; 
and  there  would  be  no  finger  of  scorn  uplifted 
against  those  whom  he  had  left  behind  him  in 
the  distant  little  Welsh  village,  the  home  of  his 
youth. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 

Thus  it  was  that  his  first  frantic  apprehen- 
sions were  succeeded  by  a period  of  calm — the 
calm  of  resignation  rather  than  despair.  For  he 
did  not  pity  himself  in  the  least;  indeed,  he  was 
not  thinking  of  himself  at  all.  A great  calamity 
had  occurred — how,  he  was  almost  yet  too  bewil- 
dered to  know ; but  his  first  and  sole  care  was  to 
shield  from  its  consequences  those  dear  ones 
whose  welfare,  whose  happiness,  whose  good 
name,  were  of  more  concern  to  him  than  his  own 
life.  Nay,  even  now,  in  the  dull  and  dazed  con- 
dition into  which  he  had  fallen,  his  mind  was 
occupied  with  but  the  one  idea — to  frame  such 
excuses  for  his  going  away  as  would  cause  them 
neither  alarm  nor  grief.  His  subsequent  silence 
they  would  no  doubt  explain  to  themselves  some- 
how or  another.  The  old  man  would  say : “ My 
boy  has  gone  away  to  the  colonies,  to  seek  his 
fortune;  and  he  is  proud;  we  shall  not  hear 
from  him,  perhaps,  until  he  can  announce  to  us 
that  he  has  succeeded.”  And  Winnie  Davies? 
She  would  wonder  for  a time.  Then  she  would 
grow  indignant  and  resentful.  Then  her  eyes — 
as  the  eyes  of  a young  maiden  are  apt  to  do — 

22 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 


2 3 


would  begin  to  rove ; recollections,  memories 
would  become  gradually  obliterated ; she  would 
take  it  that  in  those  distant  climes  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  her  and  the  little  Welsh  village; 
she  would  feel  herself  justified  in  choosing  an- 
other mate. 

Sweet  Winnie  Davies,  down  by  the  sea, 

Sweet  Winne  Davies,  do  you  still  think  of  me? 

Do  you  think  of  the  long  days  you  and  I together 
Went  wandering  by  Llanly  in  the  fair  summer  weather? 

— that  was  all  very  well  as  a bit  of  idle  rhyme ; 
but  the  way  of  the  world  was  the  way  of  the 
world;  a young  maiden’s  imaginative  fancies  are 
soon  free  to  grace  and  adorn  a new-comer.  In- 
deed, what  else  could  he  wish  for  her?  For  her, 
long  years  of  happiness  and  calm  content:  for 
him,  oblivion — and  a nameless  ocean  grave. 

Plunged  in  these  sombre  reveries,  he  had  left 
the  embankment,  crossed  the  river,  and  was 
now  in  the  Blackfriars  Road.  He  had  taken  this 
route  mechanically,  it  being  part  of  his  usual 
homeward  way;  but  he  had  no  intention  of  re- 
turning to  his  lodgings  in  the  Kennington  Park 
Road ; would  there  not  be  a detective  hovering 
about — perhaps  with  a warrant  of  arrest  in  his 
hand?  No;  his  immediate  object  was  to  get 
those  three  letters  written;  and  so,  after  some 
little  hesitation,  he  entered  a dingy-looking 


24 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


coffee-shop.  He  glanced  timidly  and  furtively 
around ; he  knew  he  had  entered  on  false  pre- 
tences ; it  was  neither  food  nor  drink  that  was 
in  his  mind.  Well,  there  seemed  to  be  nobody 
in  this  dusky  place  except  a stout  woman — prob- 
ably the  proprietress — who  was  seated  behind  a 
counter  at  the  farther  end ; but  presently  there 
emerged  from  some  mysterious  recess  a shabbily- 
dressed  man  in  black  who  was  doubtless  the 
waiter.  A poor-looking  creature  he  was,  with  a 
pale  and  puffy  face  that  suggested  gin ; and  yet 
Arthur  Hughes,  so  unstrung  were  his  nerves, 
had  some  vague  desire  to  propitiate  this  person : 
he  hoped  he  vrould  not  stare  too  curiously,  even 
with  those  dull  eyes. 

“I  should  like  some  tea  and  a roll,  if  you 
please,”  said  Hughes, with  averted  look  (would  the 
man  guess  that  he  wanted  neither  tea  nor  roll?). 

The  waiter — without  any  “ Yes,  sir  ” — was  per- 
functorily turning  away  to  order  these  things, 
when  Hughes  ventured  to  address  him  again. 

“Would  you  mind  getting  me  some  writing- 
paper  in  the  mean  time?  ” 

“How  many  sheets?”  the  waiter  responded, 
apathetically:  he  seemed  to  take  no  interest 
whatever  in  this  visitor,  who  need  not  have  been 
so  alarmed  about  awakening  suspicion. 

“ Three,  I think,  will  do — and  three  envelopes, 
if  you  please.” 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS  25 

Then  of  a sudden  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
could  at  least  spare  the  waiter  the  bother  of 
fetching  pen  and  ink:  had  he  not  with  him  the 
bottle  that  had  just  been  given  him  by  the  for- 
eigner whom  he  had  accidentally  thrown  into 
the  mud  ? — while  there  was  a pen  in  combination 
with  his  pocket-pencil. 

“You  needn’t  trouble  about  pen  and  ink,”  he 
said,  quite  humbly;  “I  have  them  with  me.” 

And  then  he  turned  into  a corner,  and  took 
his  seat  on  a bench  that  had  a narrow  table  in 
front  of  it.  Mechanically  he  pulled  out  his 
pocket-pen  and  opened  it ; mechanically  he 
brought  forth  from  his  pocket  the  little  phial: 
his  head  was  so  crowded  with  memories  and 
strange  imaginings  that  he  hardly  knew  what  he 
was  doing.  It  was  without  curiosity  that  he 
opened  the  small  bottle — the  cork  giving  way 
easily : he  may  have  noticed  that  the  ink  emitted 
a pungent  and  unusual  odor,  and  yet  he  paid  no 
particular  attention  to  the  fact.  Indeed,  he  did 
not  stay  to  consider  how  odd  it  was  that  the 
Eastern-looking  person  should  have  insisted  on 
making  him  a present  in  return  for  an  injury, 
however  unintentional  the  injury  may  have 
been : it  was  of  other  things  he  was  thinking. 
The  waiter  fetched  the  paper  and  envelopes. 
The  pen  and  ink  were  ready.  And  now  he  set 

to  work  to  construct  a cloak  under  cover  of  which 
2 


26 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


he  might  escape  into  blackness  and  the  un- 
known. 

The  first  letter  was  to  the  junior  partner  in 
Cripps’  who  had  procured  for  him  a situation 
in  the  bank.  This  Mr.  Cyrus  Brangwyn  was  on 
a walking-tour  in  Wales  when  he  chanced  to 
make  Arthur  Hughes’  acquaintance;  had  been 
much  struck  by  the  young  man’s  manner,  his 
intelligence,  his  sympathetic  nature ; and  on 
further  discovering  young  Hughes’  eager  desire 
to  get  to  London,  he  had  offered  to  use  his  in- 
fluence to  procure  him  a post,  however  minor  a 
one,  in  Cripps’.  Hughes,  who  was  merely  an 
assistant  clerk  at  the  Llanly  slate-works,  gladly 
accepted  the  offer:  to  be  in  London  was  the 
main  point,  no  matter  in  what  capacity.  Lon- 
don, with  its  Albert  Halls  and  St.  James’  Halls, 
its  opera-houses  and  Crystal  Palace — that  was 
the  Mecca  of  this  young  man’s  mind;  he  did  not 
care  in  what  guise  he  might  travel  thither,  nor 
by  what  modest  means  he  might  maintain  him- 
self there,  so  long  as  he  was  enabled  to  live  in 
the  enchanted  capital  that  drew  the  great  ones 
of  the  music- world  from  all  parts  of  the  earth. 
Then  there  came  a morning  at  Llanly,  a dull, 
gray,  bitterly  cold  winter’s  morning.  The  old 
omnibus  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  Pembroke 
Arms,  getting  in  its  freight  for  the  railway  sta- 
tion some  dozen  miles  off.  The  venerable, 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 


27 


white-headed  minister  was  here,  talking  his 
grave  fashion  to  this  one  and  that  of  the  by- 
standers. Here,  likewise,  was  Winnie  Davies — 
tearful — laughing — courageous — petulant.  Why 
would  he  not  let  her  drive  with  him  to  the  sta- 
tion? If  it  would  be  lonely  for  her  coming  back, 
it  would  be  as  lonely  for  him  in  the  cold  third- 
class  carriage  journeying  on  to  London.  Would 
he  write  as  often  as  he  had  promised?  No,  she 
knew  he  would  not.  He  was  to  be  sure  to  ask 
for  a foot- warmer  at  the  station.  He  was  to  be 
sure  to  go  and  hear  Santley  sing  at  the  Crystal 
Palace,  and  to  send  her  a long  letter  about  it. 
And,  therewithal,  as  the  driver  was  now  mount- 
ing the  box,  she  drew  from  her  pocket  a volu- 
minous neckerchief  of  pale  pink  silk,  and  this 
parting  gift  she  would  herself  wrap  round  his 
throat.  Then  the  commonplaces  of  good-by; 
and  other  farewells — not  so  commonplace — 
spoken  by  eyes  half-dimmed  and  piteous.  The 
brake  is  removed ; the  lumbering  omnibus  moves 
off;  there  is  a fluttering  of  handkerchiefs  and 
long  last  looks : Arthur  Hughes  is  away  to  Lon- 
don, in  quest  of  fame  and  fortune,  and  Winnie, 
“ sweet  Winnie  Davies,”  walks  silently  back  by 
the  side  of  the  minister,  hardly  knowing  that  he 
is  doing  his  best,  in  his  grave  and  kindly  fash- 
ion, to  cheer  her. 


28 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


“To  Cyrus  Brangwyn,  Esq.,  Cripps’  Bank, 
Strand  ” — this  was  the  letter  he  wrote  and  ad- 
dressed, sitting  in  a corner  of  the  dingy  coffee- 
house— “ Dear  Sir : — I am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you 
that  this  afternoon  I lost  my  satchel  contain- 
ing  £y,$6o  belonging  to  the  bank,  and  that  I am 
quite  powerless  to  give  you  any  information  that 
might  lead  to  the  recovery  of  the  same.  I can- 
not explain  how  the  satchel  was  taken,  nor  can 
I describe  the  thieves;  but  the  numbers  of  the 
notes  are  known  to  the  bank,  and  by  advertising 
I suppose  they  can  be  stopped,  at  least  the  large 
ones,  which  are  not  easily  negotiable.  As  for 
the  smaller  notes  which  the  thieves  may  be  able 
to  put  in  circulation,  I regret  that  I am  not  in  a 
position  to  make  good  the  loss  to  the  bank ; but 
I am  leaving  this  country ; and  if  I should  ever 
find  it  possible  to  refund  the  money,  you  may 
be  sure  I will  do  so.  If  you  think  it  necessary 
to  make  any  inquiries  about  me,  I ask  you  only 
for  one  thing — not  to  make  inquiries  at  Llanly. 
I assure  you  it  is  not  there  I am  going.  I would 
give  you  my  word  of  honor;  but  unhappily,  in 
the  position  I find  myself  placed  in — and  the 
suspicion  naturally  attaching  to  it — you  might 
not  be  inclined  to  accept  that  as  of  any  value. 
However,  what  I tell  you  is  true : I am  not  going 
to  Llanly;  and  any  one  making  inquiries  there 
would  only  give  pain  to  innocent  people,  and 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS  29 

would  gain  no  information  about  me.  I have  to 
thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Brangwyn,  for  all  the  kind- 
ness you  have  shown  me  since  I came  to  London, 
though  I am  sorry  I ever  did  come.  If  I ever 
return  to  London,  it  will  be  to  restore  the  money 
to  the  bank. 

“ Yours  very  faithfully, 

“Arthur  Hughes.” 

A sudden  sound  startled  him : a boy  in  the 
street  was  bawling  out  the  name  of  an  evening 
journal.  And  like  a knife  the  thought  flashed 
through  his  brain:  what  if  his  scheme  should 
fail?  He  seemed  to  see  before  him  the  contents- 
bill  of  one  of  those  evening  newspapers — large 
lines  staring  at  him — “ Charge  of  Robbing  a 
Bank — Proceedings  this  Day.”  And  would  not 
a summarized  report  be  at  once  telegraphed 
down  to  Wales?  Who  would  be  the  first  to  hear 
the  story — in  the  quiet  little  village? 

And  then  again  he  strove  to  reassure  himself. 
His  scheme  could  not  fail — there  was  no  possi- 
bility of  its  failing — once  he  was  on  board  the 
big  steamer  that  would  carry  him  out  into  the 
night.  A noiseless  slipping  over  into  the  dark 
and  unknown  waters — and  no  writ  or  warrant 
could  reach  him  then.  There  could  be  no  charge 
brought  against  one  who  had  ceased  to  exist; 
there  would  be  no  evidence,  no  witnesses,  no 


30 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


public  trial,  no  report  to  be  telegraphed  down 
to  Wales.  There  remained  only  to  make  these 
last  sad  preparations. 

But  meanwhile  that  sudden  sound  had  also 
startled  the  pallid-faced  waiter;  it  seemed  to 
arouse  him  out  of  his  dull  lethargy.  He  cast  a 
surreptitious  glance  toward  his  mistress,  who 
appeared  to  have  fallen  asleep : then  quickly  and 
stealthily  he  went  to  the  door.  He  was  gone  for 
only  a second  or  two ; when  he  returned,  he  had 
an  evening  paper  in  his  hand ; and  a marvellous 
change  had  come  over  his  features — he  was  all 
eagerness  and  suppressed  excitement. 

“ Archipelago ! ” he  said,  in  a confidential 
whisper,  to  Arthur  Hughes. 

The  young  man  looked  up,  dazed;  he  did  not 
understand. 

“ What  is  it?” 

"‘The  Rose  Plate — Newmarket ” 

And  even  yet  he  did  not  seem  to  comprehend. 

“ It  was  fifteen  to  eight  against;  I’ve  made  my 
little  bit  this  time,”  said  the  waiter,  who  could 
not  altogether  conceal  his  triumph,  though  he 
spoke  guardedly. 

“ Oh,  a race,  do  you  mean ! ” 

“Well,  sir,  if  we  didn’t  pick  out  a winner  now 
and  again,  we’d  never  get  along — just  to  keep 
one’s  heart  up  like.  They  tell  me  that  Red  Star 
is  a moral  for  the  Cambridgeshire ” 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 


31 


But  at  this  juncture  the  mistress  of  the  place 
made  some  movement,  and  the  waiter  sneaked 
off,  and  began  to  apply  his  napkin  to  one  of  the 
tables.  Arthur  Hughes  looked  after  him. 

“ Man,  man,”  he  said  to  himself,  “ have  you  no 
thought  of  the  terrible  things  around  you  in  the 
world  that  you  can  occupy  yourself  with  such 
trifles?  And  yet,  why  not?  What  better  than 
to  think  of  nothing  from  day  to  day  but  the  con- 
stant and  common  routine,  with  this  little  variety 
of  interest?  One  morning  must  be  just  like  an- 
other morning,  one  night  like  another  night, 
quiet  and  ordinary;  nothing  haunting  you,  noth- 
ing to  dread.  I wonder  if  you  know  how  well 
off  you  are — I wonder  if  you  know  what  a price- 
less, blessing  it  is  to  be  without  care?  ” 

And  therewithal,  and  heavily-hearted  enough, 
he  turned  once  more  to  his  series  of  farewells. 
It  was  to  his  father  that  he  would  now  write. 

• “Dear  Father: — You  know  with  what  aspi- 
rations I came  to  London.  But  after  some  study 
of  the  musical  world,  from  the  outside,  of  course, 
I find  that  the  openings  for  a young  composer, 
unless  he  is  of  extraordinary  ability,  or  has 
powerful  friends,  are  few  indeed.  On  the  other 
hand,  promotion  in  a London  bank  is  by  slow 
steps;  the  increase  of  salary  small;  and  little 
opportunity  given  for  one’s  personal  endeavors. 


32 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


So  I have  resolved  to  leave  England,  and  seek 
some  wider  and  freer  sphere.  You  must  not  be 
alarmed,  or  fret,  if  you  do  not  hear  from  me  for 
some  time ; for  my  plans  are  as  yet  vague ; and 
I may  wander  far  before  coming  to  a halt.  Be 
kind  to  Winnie.  Even  if  you  do  not  hear  from 
me  for  a very  long  time,  do  not  worry  on  my 
account. 

“Your  affectionate  son, 

“Arthur  Hughes.” 

These  two  letters  had  been  comparatively  easy 
to  write.  But  when  he  came  to  the  message  he 
must  send  to  Winnie  Davies,  he  paused.  A 
haggard  and  drawn  look  came  over  his  face ; it 
was  as  if  the  hand  of  death  were  already  upon 
him ; and  as  if  this  were  the  farewell  dooming 
her  to  widowhood.  And  then  a strange  exal- 
tation of  self-sacrifice  entered  his  heart.  If  he 
were  parting  with  her,  and  yielding  her  to  some 
one  else,  he  would  see  that  those  days  of  her 
widowhood  should  be  brief  and  be  not  embittered 
by  any  useless  sorrow.  He  would  make  it  easy 
for  her  to  forget  him ; he  would  challenge  her 
wounded  pride  to  help.  For  what  more  possible 
than  that  a young  man,  far  away  from  his  native 
village  and  its  associations,  and  plunged  into  this 
roaring  city,  should  have  allowed  his  wandering 
inclinations  to  stray  from  the  sweetheart  of  his 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS  33 

youth  and  fix  themselves  on  some  one  nearer  at 
hand?  The  briefest  hint  would  be  enough. 
Winnie  Davies  was  proud;  she  would  seek  no 
further  correspondence ; his  silence  thereafter 
would  be  no  trouble  to  her  hurt  and  indignant 
spirit.  And  so,  with  rather  bloodless  lips,  he 
began  to  write : 

“Dear  Miss  Winifred — ” He  stopped  and 
looked.  “Dear  Miss  Winifred.”  That  was  the 
way  he  used  to  address  her  in  the  remote  days 
when  her  father  and  she  first  came  to  Llanly, 
and  when  she  became  a member  of  the  village 
choir.  But  in  those  days  “ Dear  Miss  Winifred  ” 
meant  respect  and  a timid  appeal  for  friendship ; 
whereas  now  the  phrase  was  meant  to  wound  and 
insult.  Never  mind;  the  pang  would  be  but 
temporary — and  the  days  of  her  widowhood 
would  have  no  vain  longings  and  regrets  at- 
tached. 

“Dear  Miss  Winifred: — What  I have  to  say 
may  pain  you  for  the  moment,  but  it  is  better 
for  us  both  that  it  should  be  said  at  once  and 
done  with.  I am  afraid  you  were  wiser  than  I 
when  you  hinted  that  our  engagement  was  some- 
what premature,  and  therefore  involving  risk. 
And  if  I admit  that,  living  very  much  alone  in 

London,  and  craving  for  sympathy  as  is  natural 
2* 


34 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


with  a solitary  stranger  in  a large  town,  I have 
met  with  some  one  else  whose  attractions  have 
convinced  me  that  the  engagement  between  you 
and  me  was  a mistake  from  the  beginning ” 

He  paused  again,  and  regarded  these  lines. 
The  poor  conventional  phrases,  the  cold  arti- 
ficiality of  tone;  who  could  have  imagined  that 
each  word  went  like  a dagger  through  his  heart? 
And  indeed  he  could  not  go  on.  He  was  about 
to  die ; it  was  not  thus  he  could  send  a last  mes- 
sage to  Winnie  Davies.  He  might  have  to  con- 
ceal much  from  her;  he  would  have  to  let  her 
believe  that  some  day  or  other  he  might  return , 
but  he  could  not,  even  in  the  short  time  that  was 
now  left  to  him  of  life,  bear  the  thought  that  all 
through  the  long  years  to  come  she  would  re- 
gard him  with  scorn  and  disdain  as  a false  friend 
and  perjured  lover.  It  was  too  much  for  him  to 
demand  of  himself.  So  he  tore  up  that  sheet  of 
paper,  and  began  again — but  still  with  caution 
and  self-control  dominating  his  brain  and  trying 
to  still  the  almost  suffocating  pulses  of  heart : 

“Dearest  Winnie: — I have  something  to  tell 
you  which  may  surprise  you,  but  it  is  not  meant 
to  cause  you  any  distress.  It  is  merely  that  I 
am  not  quite  satisfied  with  my  position  in  Lon- 
don ; and  that  I am  going  away.  I have  nothing 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS  35 

to  complain  of  as  against  any  one ; but  there  are 
circumstances  which  seem  to  call  me  away  from 
London ; and  I am  sure  it  will  be  better  for  us 
all  in  the  end.  You  will  say  I ought  to  have 
come  down  to  Llanly  to  bid  you  good-by;  and 
you  may  be  sure  I do  not  forget  your  kindness 
in  getting  up  that  bitterly  cold  morning,  nor  yet 
all  the  things  your  eyes  said  after  I was  on  the 
top  of  the  coach  and  you  could  no  longer  speak. 
But  the  world  is  full  of  changes  and  disappoint- 
ments ; and  if  I do  not  run  down  to  Llanly  now 
to  see  you  again,  it  is  because  there  are  urgent 
reasons  against  it.  I wish  you  would  often  go 
over  to  see  my  father;  he  is  very  lonely  by  him- 
self in  the  house,  and  you  know  how  fond  he  is  of 
you.  If  you  ever  speak  of  me  don’t  be  vexed 
that  I have  left  you  in  a kind  of  uncertainty;  and 
you  must  always  remember  this,  that  no  news  is 
good  news.  And  now,  dearest  Winnie,  good-by, 
and  God  bless  you ! Do  not  write  to  me — I am 
going  away  from  London.  Arthur.” 

And  therewith  he  corked  up  the  little  bottle 
of  oddly-scented  ink  and  put  it  in  his  pocket 
again  along  with  his  pen;  he  paid  for  the  tea 
and  roll  which  he  had  not  touched ; he  purchased 
some  stamps  for  the  letters,  and  left  the  coffee- 
house, wandering  out  alone  into  the  wide  wilder- 
ness of  London. 


36 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


And  now  he  was  free  to  go ; his  affairs  in  this 
world  were  all  finished  up ; there  was  nothing 
left  for  him  but  to  slip  quietly  away  out  of  the 
knowledge  of  men,  so  that  his  beloved  ones  should 
have  no  suspicion.  But  all  of  a sudden  a blunt 
matter  of  fact  interposed  here,  as  he  stood  hesi- 
tating and  absent-minded  in  the  Blackfriars 
Road.  He  had  only  a few  shillings  in  his 
pocket.  How  was  he  to  purchase  a passage  in 
any  Canadian  or  American  steamer,  in  order  that 
on  some  dark  night  he  might  disappear  into  the 
voiceless  grave  of  the  Atlantic?  He  had,  it  is 
true — apart  from  the  bulk  of  his  savings,  which 
were  deposited  in  the  Llanly  bank — a few  sover- 
eigns at  home  in  his  lodgings ; but  even  if  these 
were  sufficient  to  secure  a berth  (as  to  which  he 
had  no  precise  information) , how  could  he  return 
to  fetch  them?  Already,  he  vaguely  surmised, 
the  place  was  being  watched.  Detectives  were 
after  the  absconding  clerk.  Nay,  even  now, 
when  he  had  formed  no  definite  plans  at  all,  he 
had  unconsciously  turned  toward  the  heart  of  the 
great  city,  and  was  slowly  and  impassively  mak- 
ing for  Blackfriars  Bridge  again.  How  happy — 
how  careless — were  those  people  he  saw  around 
him ! The  big  draymen  were  cracking  jokes  as 
they  lowered  barrels  into  the  public-house  cellars. 
The  rubicund  driver  of  an  omnibus  raised  his 
whip  in  salutation  to  the  driver  of  a butcher’s 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 


37 


cart,  who  responded*” in  gay  fashion.  Even  a 
blind  beggar,  chanting  his  unheeded  stave, 
seemed  content;  by  and  by,  with  a few  pence  in 
his  pocket,  he  would  creep  away  home  to  the 
common  lodging-house,  to  his  pipe  and  his 
cronies,  sufficiently  well  satisfied  with  such  poor 
and  small  share  of  the  world  as  had  been  ac- 
corded him.  How  gladly  would  this  hapless 
young  man  have  exchanged  positions  with  any 
one  of  these,  had  not  a tragic  destiny  encom- 
passed him ! But  for  him  there  was  no  escape. 
Indeed,  he  wished  for  no  escape.  It  was  not 
about  himself  he  was  concerned.  How  many 
years  would  it  be  before  Winnie  Davies  would 
quite  abandon  all  hope  of  hearing  from  him — 
would  choose  out  another  lover — would  go  round 
by  the  quay,  and  through  the  town,  and  up  the 
vale,  to  meet  him,  singing  lightly  to  herself  the 
while  “Cadair  Idris,”  or  “The  Watching  of  the 
Wheat?”  For  he  hoped,  and  wished,  for  no 
impossible  things  in  the  way  of  constancy.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Winnie  Davies  might  sometimes 
think  of  him ; and  if  she  did,  it  would  not  be  as 
of  a jail-bird.  He  would  make  sure  of  that. 

He  wandered  on.  The  black  world  of  Lon- 
don was  now  ablaze  with  points  of  yellow  fire ; 
cabs  and  carriages  were  driving  to  the  theatres ; 
the  restaurants  showed  wide  doors.  He  drew 
away  toward  the  east;  and  as  the  slow  hours 


3« 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


passed  there  was  greater  darkness  here  and  lone- 
liness. A considerable  traffic  still  poured  down 
toward  London  Bridge ; but  about  the  Exchange, 
and  Cornhill,  and  Gracechurch  Street,  fewer  and 
fewer  persons  were  to  be  met.  Why  had  he 
come  hither?  Because  he  had  a dim  recollec- 
tion that  in  Fenchurch  Street  was  the  station 
for  Tilbury  and  Tilbury  Docks;  and  he  knew 
that  from  thence  went  great  steamers  out  into 
the  unknown  seas  which  were  his  goal.  It  was 
a short  railway  journey;  so  far  at  least  he  could 
get;  and  once  down  there  at  the  docks,  who 
could  tell  what  happy  accident  might  bring  him 
to  his  desire?  So  he  idly  patrolled  these  dark 
and  silent  thoroughfares,  as  hour  after  hour 
went  by — rather  avoiding  this  or  that  passing 
policeman,  whose  suspicious  glance  he  knew  was 
directed  toward  him. 

Then,  with  the  coming  of  the  gray  light  of  the 
dawn,  and  while  the  side-thoroughfares  were 
as  yet  deserted — especially  Fenchurch  Avenue, 
into  which  he  had  by  blind  accident  strolled — he 
thought  he  would  take  out  and  read  Winnie 
Davies’  last  letter  to  him.  It  would  be  a kind 
of  farewell  message  from  her.  And  as  he  un- 
folded these  closely-written  pages  and  began,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  Winnie’s  voice  sounded 
strange.  It  appeared  to  be  far  away.  It  ap- 
peared to  belong  to  a distant  and  happy  time ; 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS  39 

leagues  and  leagues  now  lay  between  him  and 
his  sombre  surroundings  and  that  cheerful,  every- 
day, hopeful  kind  of  life  that  Winnie  Davies 
talked  about  in  so  simple  and  blithe  a strain. 

“Do  you  know  what  happened  yesterday,”  she 
wrote,  “when  I went  down  to  post  a letter? 
Little  Polly  Evans  had  come  out  from  the  back 
shop,  and  she  was  sitting  on  the  door-step,  and 
she  had  a kitten,  and  she  had  hold  of  the  kitten 
by  the  fore-paws,  and  was  trying  to  get  it  to  sit 
up,  or  to  dance,  or  some  nonsense  of  the  kind. 
But  just  imagine  my  astonishment  when  I over- 
heard what  the  little  wretch  was  singing — or 
trying  to  sing — I only  heard  fragments,  but  I 
knew  what  she  was  after  very  well : it  was  im- 
pudent of  the  little  monkey  to  make  a dance- 
song  of  it  to  please  a kitten — but  still — but  still 
— and  this  is  what  she  was  trying  at : 

“ ‘ O Llanly  bells ! O Llanly  bells ! your  sad  notes  never 
vary ; 

I hear  throughout  your  trembling  chimes  the  name  of 
my  lost  Mary ! 

Oh,  hush  you,  bells ! oh,  hush  you,  bells ! with  grief  my 
heart  is  breaking — 

Have  you  no  other  sound  than  that — of  loving  and 
forsaking?  * 

“‘Why,  Polly,’  says  I,  ‘where  did  you  learn 
that  song?’  for  I knew  she  was  too  small  a thing 
to  have  heard  it  at  the  choir-meetings. 


40 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


“‘My  sister  Hephzibah  sings  it  at  night,’  says 
she,  ‘ when  she  is  ironing  the  clothes.  But 
they’re  all  singing  it.’ 

“ Arthur,  my  cheeks  were  burning  crimson — I 
mean  my  Ordinary  Self  this  time.  ‘ They  re  all 
singing  it,  ’ the  little  monkey  said,  as  innocently 
as  possible.  And  so,  as  soon  as  I had  posted  fa- 
ther’s letter,  away  I went  round  by  the  chapel, 
and  up  the  hill,  for  I thought  I should  like  to 
hear  what  the  Other  One — Arthur’s  Winnie — 
had  to  say  about  this.  And  when  I took  the 
mirror  out  to  find  her,  you  should  just  have  seen 
her — smirking,  and  laughing,  and  as  pleased  as 
Punch. 

“‘Oh,’  says  I,  ‘I  suppose  you’re  mighty  proud 
just  because  you’ve  heard  that  the  girls  in  a 
Welsh  village  have  taken  to  singing  a particular 
song?’ 

“‘You  mind  your  own  business,  Miss  Ordina- 
ry,’ she  says,  as  bold  as  brass.  ‘If  there  are  bet- 
ter judges  of  music  than  the  girls  in  a Welsh 
village,  I don’t  know  where  you  will  find  them.’ 

“ ‘ And  I suppose,  ’ says  I (for  she  was  looking  so 
happy  and  stuck-up  that  it  quite  annoyed  me), 
‘that  you  think  the  popularity  of  a song  in  a lit- 
tle corner  of  Wales  means  conducting  a cantata 
in  St.  James’  Hall  or  at  the  Crystal  Palace?’ 

“ But  you  should  have  seen  how  superior  she 
was! 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 


41 


“‘Miss  Ordinary,’  she  says,  ‘if  you  are  so  very 
commonplace  and  unimaginative,  let  me  tell  you 
that  small  beginnings  have  sometimes  great  end- 
ings. They  re  all  singing  it:  well,  if  you  see  noth- 
ing in  that — if  you  do  not  understand  what  that 
means — then  I say  you  are  not  fit  to  have  made 
the  acquaintance  of — you  know  who  I mean; 
and  I will  thank  you  to  go  away  home,  and  re- 
sume your  commonplace  drudgery,  and  your 
narrow  views.  I have  faith.  I can  look  for- 
ward. I don’t  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
you ; I do  not  wish  to  associate  with  you ; you 
can  be  off  now,  please!’ 

“ Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  conceit ! 

“‘Oh,’  says  I,  ‘perhaps,  when  the  great  opera 
comes  to  be  produced  at  Co  vent  Garden,  you 
will  allow  me  to  pass  in  to  some  quiet  corner, 
where  I can  sit  and  watch?  ” 

“ ‘ You!  ’ she  says,  with  the  greatest  contempt. 
‘You  would  be  shaking  in  your  shoes.  You 
would  be  dreading  failure.  Whereas  I have  no 
fear.  / know.  ’ 

“ Indeed,  dear  Arthur,  she  was  just'  full  of 
confidence  and  assurance,  and  too  proud  almost 
to  speak  to,  simply  because  the  Llanly  girls  had 
taken  to  singing  your  song.  And  I may  as  well 
tell  you  that  she  was  looking  none  so  ill — con- 
sidering the  absence  of  somebody — and  she  was 
wearing,  instead  of  the  shell-brooch,  the  silver 


42 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


anchor,  for  who  was  to  know  who  gave  it  to 
her ” 

Of  a sudden  he  ceased  reading  this  gay  and 
garrulous  letter.  The  mention  of  his  little 
present  to  her  recalled  to  him  that  out  at  his 
lodgings  there  were  countless  letters  and  also  a 
number  of  small  trinkets  that  Winnie  Davies 
had  sent  him  since  his  coming  to  London ; and 
how  could  he  go  away  and  leave  them  behind? 
These  were  his  secret  and  sacred  treasures : were 
the  detectives  to  be  allowed  to  overhaul  them,  to 
pore  over  her  artless  confidences,  to  guess  at 
hidden  meanings  known  only  to  himself  and 
her?  At  any  cost  of  danger  these  things  must 
be  rescued.  Even  if  his  lodgings  were  being 
watched,  might  there  not  be  a moment  of  care- 
lessness? He  would  be  cautious  in  venturing 
near;  a single  second — and  a latch-key  ready 
in  his  fingers — would  suffice  to  get  him  into  the 
house;  as  cautiously  would  he  come  out  again, 
bringing  with  him  what  thereafter  could  never 
be  profaned.  So  he  debated  and  debated  within 
himself — fearing  and  reassuring  himself  by  turns 
— as  the  busy  world  of  London  woke  again ; and 
in  the  end  he  was  irresistibly  drawn  away  out 
toward  that  suburb  which  hitherto  he  had  avoid- 
ed with  an  unnamable  dread. 

After  long  delay,  and  with  the  greatest 
circumspection,  he  ventured  to  approach  his 


THE  WRITING  OF  THE  LETTERS 


43 


lodgings.  It  was  now  past  nine,  and  the  om- 
nibuses and  tramway-cars  had  carried  the  bulk 
of  the  business  men  away  into  the  city;  the 
neighborhood  was  comparatively  quiet.  As  far 
as  he  could  make  out  there  was  no  one  keeping 
observation  on  the  house ; so,  plucking  up  cour- 
age, he  went  quickly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
let  himself  in,  and  to  his  delight  found  the  way 
clear  before  him.  Hurrying  upstairs  to  his  own 
room,  a few  seconds  enabled  him  to  gain  pos- 
session of  those  various  little  nothings  that  to 
him  were  invaluable ; he  put  them  in  his  breast- 
pocket, next  his  heart — they  would  go  with  him 
whither  he  was  going ; and  now  he  had  but  to 
make  good  his  escape. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  met  his  landlady — 
a tall,  thin,  rather  sad-looking  woman,  in  wid- 
ow’s weeds — who  seemed  frightened. 

“Oh,  sir,  you’ve  come  back,  sir — and — and  a 
gentleman  from  the  bank,  sir,  ’e  called  yesterday 
evening,  and  was  most  p’tickler  in  his  questions, 
sir,  and  couldn’t  understand  it ” 

“From  the  bank?”  Arthur  Hughes  repeated, 
staring  at  the  woman. 

“Yes,  sir.  And  another  one” — she  did  not 
say  “ gentleman  ” — “ ’e  came  this  morning,  not 
’arf  a hour  ago,  and  there  was  more  questions, 
and  what  could  I say,  sir?  For  you  as  never 
was  out  all  night  before ” 


44 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


There  was  a sharp  rat-tat  at  the  door.  Ar- 
thur Hughes  looked  alarmed.  The  landlady 
stepped  along  the  passage  and  answered  the  sum- 
mons. 

“Yes,  sir,  he’s  here  now,"  she  said  to  the 
stranger. 

And  instinctively  the  young  man  knew — and 
quailed. 

“Mr.  Arthur  Hughes,  I believe?"  said  the 
new-comer,  civilly  enough.  “ My  name  is 
Jameson — Inspector  Jameson.  I have  been  sent 
by  Cripps’  bank  to  make  some  inquiries;  of 
course  they  were  very  much  astonished  at  your 
not  turning  up  yesterday  afternoon." 

“But — but  what  do  you  want?"  the  young 
man  said,  with  a ghastly  pallor  on  his  face. 

“ Oh,  merely  that  you  should  come  with  me  to 
the  bank,  and  give  any  explanation  you  see  fit. 
That’s  all,"  said  the  detective, quite  coolly.  “ You 
have  no  objection,  I presume.  We’d  better  have 
a hansom;  the  partners  were  very  much  con- 
cerned about  your  not  showing  up  yesterday." 

He  surrendered  himself  in  a blind  sort  of  fash- 
ion. His  desperate  stratagem — unless  there  was 
still  some  wild  chance  of  escape — had  failed. 
He  was  in  the  hands  of  the  law.  And  his  old 
father?  And  “sweet  Winnie  Davies,  down  by 
the  sea?  " 


CHAPTER  III 


A MYSTERY 

And  the  law,  as  he  knew,  was  inexorable. 
Unless  some  unforeseen  opportunity  might  still 
present  itself  of  his  being  able  to  slip  away  out 
of  the  clutches  of  these  people — to  disappear, 
leaving  no  trace  behind  him — there  would  be  no 
mercy  shown  to  him  or  his.  There  would  be  no 
consideration  extended  to  the  white-haired  old 
minister  away  down  there  in  Wales,  nor  yet  to 
the  young  girl  whose  whole  future  life  would  be 
overshadowed  by  her  former  relationship  with  a 
felon.  The  story  would  get  into  the  papers; 
there  would  be  a trial ; he  could  do  nothing  to 
prove  his  innocence ; and  it  was  the  business  of 
the  prosecution  to  believe  the  worst.  Already 
he  seemed  to  regard  himself  as  a convicted  crim- 
inal. The  inspector  seated  beside  him  in  the  han- 
som cab  was  his  jailer — it  was  a wonder  he  had 
not  produced  a pair  of  handcuffs.  And  yet  this 
man,  no  doubt,  had  his  own  family  ties;  most 
likely,  when  he  went  home  at  night,  his  children 
would  come  clambering  on  to  his  knee,  convinced 
that  he  was  the  kindest  of  fathers.  It  was  only 
when  he  acted  as  part  of  that  dread  machine, 
the  law,  that  he  became  as  implacable  and  in- 
exorable as  itself. 


45 


46 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


For  a time,  as  the  hansom  carried  them  rapidly 
away  into  the  city,  the  young  man  was  silent  and 
absorbed ; and  his  companion  did  not  seek  to  in- 
trude upon  his  dark  meditations.  But  at  length 
Arthur  Hughes  said,  almost  wearily: 

“ I suppose  they  think  I stole  the  money?  ” 
“Oh!  as  for  that,”  rejoined  the  inspector,  with 
an  amiable  cheerfulness,  “ there  has  been  no 
charge  brought  against  you  as  yet — not  at  all. 
It  certainly  looked  awkward  your  not  returning 
to  the  bank ; and  they  were  naturally  very  much 
concerned  about  it.  With  a large  sum  of  money 
like  that  in  your  possession,  it  was  possible  you 
might  have  been  robbed  or  murdered.  But  of 
course  you  will  give  them  all  the  necessary  ex- 
planations  ” 

“I  cannot!  ” the  young  man  exclaimed,  in  his 
despair.  “How  can  I explain?  I know  noth- 
ing. When  the  bag  was  stolen,  I did  not  see 
who  took  it.  I had  turned  for  a moment  to 
speak  to  a stranger,  and  in  the  same  instant  the 
satchel  was  snatched  away — I suppose  by  an  ac- 
complice of  the  man  who  spoke  to  me.  It  was 
all  the  work  of  a second.  It  was  as  if  the  satchel 
had  vanished.  I ran  up  and  down — searched 
everywhere ” 

He  stopped.  What  was  the  use  of  trying  to 
convince  this  man  ? It  was  the  business  of  the 
law  to  assume  his  guilt. 


A MYSTERY 


47 


“ It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  re- 
turned to  the  bank  and  reported  the  robbery,” 
observed  the  inspector,  dispassionately. 

“ I was  frightened  and  bewildered,”  the  young 
man  confessed.  “ I made  sure  they  would  not 
believe  me — the  story  would  sound  incredible — 
and  I had  nothing  to  show  by  way  of  proof. 
And  I suppose  they  will  not  believe  me  now. 
You,”  said  he,  turning  to  his  companion  as  if 
with  a challenge,  “do  you  believe  that  I have 
not  made  away  with  that  money?  Do  you  be- 
lieve that  I don’t  know  where  a single  farthing 
of  it  is?  ” 

“ Oh,  as  for  that,”  said  the  inspector,  evasively, 
“ I must  remind  you  again  that  at  present  there 
is  no  charge  against  you.  You  are  not  even  in 
custody.” 

“Not  in  custody!  ” said  Hughes,  with  a stare. 

“ No,”  said  the  other,  coolly.  “ But  if  you  had 
refused  to  come  with  me  to  the  bank,  I should 
have  been  forced  to  give  you  into  custody.  It 
is  much  better  as  it  is.  And  I have  no  doubt 
you  will  be  able  to  give  a quite  satisfactory  ac- 
count of  the  whole  matter  when  we  get  to 
Cripps’.” 

So  he  was  not  yet  in  custody  ? And  there  had 
been  no  charge  brought  against  him  that  would 
involve  his  immediate  arrest?  Was  there  still 
some  chance,  then,  of  his  being  allowed  to  carry 


48 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


his  original  plan  into  execution — to  make  sure 
that  his  best  and  dearest  should  come  to  no  re- 
proach through  him  ? For  he  had  not  revealed 
his  intention  to  any  one ; that  was  his  own  dark 
secret;  escape  and  disappearance,  and  thereafter 
the  silence  of  unknown  waters,  might  even  yet 
be  possible. 

But  little  indeed  did  Arthur  Hughes  anticipate 
what  was  now  about  to  happen.  They  had  just 
arrived  at  Cripps’,  and  were  crossing  the  pave- 
ment, when  a gentleman  came  hurriedly  out. 
The  moment  he  cast  eyes  on  young  Hughes,  an 
expression  of  astonishment — coupled  with  some- 
thing of  relief,  too — appeared  on  his  face;  and 
he  came  forward  quickly. 

“Good  heavens!  Hughes,  what  could  you 
mean  by  sending  me  such  a letter?  ” he  said,  in 
a serious  undertone.  “ I was  just  about  to  drive 
out  to  your  lodgings,  to  see  what  had  happened. 
But  here,  come  into  the  bank ; I must  talk  this 
thing  over  with  you  in  private.” 

Arthur  Hughes  followed  submissively;  this 
was  Mr.  Brangwyn,  one  of  the  junior  partners, 
who  had  been  of  much  service  to  the  young  man. 
As  they  passed  through  the  general  room  used 
by  the  partners,  these  gentlemen,  sitting  at  their 
several  tables,  looked  up  and  scanned  with  some 
curiosity  (at  least  so  it  seemed  to  Hughes)  their 
absconding  clerk ; then  Mr.  Brangwyn  entered 


A MYSTERY 


49 


a smaller  apartment,  also  overlooking  the  Strand, 
shut  the  door,  and  bade  Hughes  be  seated. 

“Well,  this  is  a pretty  business!  ” said  he,  af- 
fecting an  injured  tone.  “ You  know  that  it  was 
in  a measure  due  to  me  that  you  came  to  London, 
and  got  a place  in  this  bank;  then,  in  conse* 
quence  of  something  connected  with  the  bank, 
you  go  and  propose  to  commit  suicide ; and  so, 
in  a measure  I am  made  responsible  for  the  taking 
away  of  a fellow-creature’sVlife.  Do  you  call 
that  fair  treatment?  It  seems  to  me  an  ill  return 
for  what  little  I have  been  able  to  do  for  you. 
And  suicide!  such  a cowardly  way  of  escaping 
from  trouble ” 

“Mr.  Brangwyn,”  Arthur  Hughes  gasped  out, 
“ I never  said  a word  about  suicide ! ” 

“ Good  gracious,  man ! what  are  you  talking 
about!”  the  junior  partner  exclaimed,  impa- 
tiently. “ Here  is  your  letter.  Here  is  your 
letter  that  I found  lying  on  my  table  not  more 
than  ten  minutes  ago.” 

He  went  to  a drawer. 

“Yes,  I know  I sent  you  a letter,”  the  young 
man  said,  quickly.  “ And — and  I confess  that  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  get  on  board  a ship  and 
slip  over  the  side  some  dark  night ; not  to  escape 
from  anything  that  might  happen  to  me,  but  to 
save  my  old  father — and — and  another — from  the 
shame  that  might  come  of  a prosecution.  But 

3 


5° 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


no  one  was  to  know.  It  was  to  be  my  secret. 
And  it  was  not  likely  I should  tell  you  about  it 
in  a letter.” 

“ Bless  my  soul,  can  you  read  your  own  hand- 
writing? What  do  you  call  that?  Read — read 
for  yourself!  ” 

Arthur  Hughes  took  the  letter  that  was  given 
to  him ; and  as  he  regarded  it,  there  was  amaze- 
ment— and  even  consternation — in  his  eyes.  For 
this  that  he  saw  before  him,  line  after  line,  was 
not  what  he  had  written  in  that  dingy  little  cof- 
fee-house, but  what  he  had  been  thinking  dur- 
ing the  time  of  his  writing.  Here  was  the  literal 
truth.  Here  were  no  formal  sentences,  stu- 
diously vague,  designed  to  cover  the  desperate 
scheme  he  had  planned  out  for  himself ; but  in 
place  of  these  the  actual  thoughts  and  emotions, 
hot  and  tumultuous,  that  had  surged  through  his 
brain  when,  as  he  thought,  he  was  bidding 
adieu  to  life.  He  read  on  in  breathless  be- 
wilderment; for  he  could  not  but  recognize  the 
fact  that  these  things  had  been  present  to  his 
mind  all  the  while  he  was  penning  that  farewell 
message.  And  by  what  subtle  alchemy  had  the 
transformation  been  effected? 

“Dear  Mr.  Brangwyn” — this  is  what  he  be- 
held before  him,  undoubtedly  in  his  own  hand- 
writing— “You  have  been  a good  friend  to  me, 


A MYSTERY 


51 


and  it  is  with  the  deepest  grief  and  sorrow  in 
my  heart  that  I say  good-by  to  you,  in  circum- 
stances that  will  lead  you  to  suspect  me  of  the 
basest  ingratitude.  This  afternoon  my  satchel, 
containing  £7,560  belonging  to  the  bank,  was 
stolen  from  me  at  the  counter  of  the  London  and 
Westminster,  Temple  Bar  Branch;  and  as  I can- 
not describe  the  person  who  took  it,  I suppose 
any  one  would  naturally  conclude  I myself  had 
made  away  with  the  money,  and  there  would  be 
a prosecution.  I should  not  mind  that  for  my- 
self, whatever  might  happen ; but  I cannot  bear 
the  idea  of  bringing  such  shame  on  my  old 
father,  who  has  lived  all  his  life  in  respect  and 
honor,  and  can  only  have  a few  years  more  be- 
fore him  now.  And  Winnie  Davies — the  daugh- 
ter of  the  schoolmaster  at  Llanly — I think  you 
will  remember  her ; you  said  she  was  the  pret- 
tiest girl  you  had  seen  in  Wales;  and  proud  I 
was  that  day.  She  and  I were  to  have  been 
married  if  things  had  gone  well ; but  that  is  all 
over  now;  and  the  only  desire  I have  in  my 
mind  is  to  make  sure  that  no  disgrace  may  fall 
on  my  father  or  on  her  through  me.  I am  about 
to  take  a passage,  under  an  assumed  name,  in  a 
steamer  going  to  America;  and  some  night  I 
will  slip  over  the  side;  and  no  one  will  guess. 
My  father  and  Winnie  will  wonder  for  a while 
why  I do  not  write;  but  my  father  is  an  old 


52 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


man;  in  the  natural  course  he  will  pass  away 
without  suspecting;  and  Winnie  will  forget,  and 
marry  and  be  happy.  Mr.  Brangwyn,  I hope  you 
do  not  think  I touched  the  money.  No ; I am 
almost  sure  you  will  not  think  that;  but  the 
other  partners  know  little  or  nothing  about  me ; 
and  they  are  business  men — they  would  want  a 
strict  inquiry ; and  I have  -nothing  with  which  to 
prove  my  innocence.  But  that  is  about  myself; 
and  I do  not  wish  to  speak  about  myself ; it  is 
all  over  with  me,  and  my  hopes  as  to  music,  and 
with  other  hopes : what  is  one  human  being  more 
or  less  in  the  world?  It  is  about  those  dearest 
to  me  that  I wish  to  speak ; and  I beg  this  thing 
from  you  with  a full  heart — it  is  an  appeal  almost 
from  the  grave,  and  you  will  not  refuse.  If  my 
father  and  Winnie  should  come  to  London  to 
make  inquiries  about  me,  they  will  almost  cer- 
tainly go  to  you,  knowing  of  your  goodness  to 
me;  and  they  will  ask  news  of  me.  Now,  dear 
Mr.  Brangwyn,  this  is  my  last  prayer  to  you:  be 
kind  to  them  and  cheer  them.  Tell  them  that  I 
was  ambitious — that  I went  away — that  they  may 
expect  to  hear  from  me  after  a while.  Do 
not  say  anything  to  them  about  the  money. 
They  are  poor;  they  could  not  make  any  restitu- 
tion to  the  bank;  besides,  if  they  know  about 
the  loss,  they  might  couple  it  with  my  going 
away.  Be  kind  to  them.  The  one  is  an  old 


A MYSTERY 


53 


man  who  has  already  come  through  many  trou- 
bles and  trials ; the  other  is  a young  girl  whose 
opening  life  should  not  be  clouded  by  sad  mem- 
ories. If  they  come  to  London,  send  them  away 
cheerful  and  hopeful.  This  is  my  last  prayer  to 
you,  and  it  comes  to  you  as  from  the  other  world. 

“Arthur  Hughes.” 

“Now,”  said  the  banker,  in  simulated  indig- 
nation (for  in  truth  he  was  glad  enough  to  find 
the  young  man  alive  and  well,  his  sinister  de- 
sign frustrated  at  least  for  the  moment) , “ per- 
haps you  will  say  that  is  not  a threat  to  commit 
suicide?  ” 

But  Arthur  Hughes  was  still  staring  at  the 
paper,  utterly  confounded. 

“That  is  not  the  letter  I sent  to  you!”  he 
said. 

“ Do  you  deny  that  it  is  in  your  handwriting? 
Who  is  likely  to  have  known  of  all  these  private 
matters  but  yourself?  ” were  the  next  questions. 

“It  is  in  my  handwriting,”  Hughes  said. 
“ And — and  what  is  more — it  is  the  truth.  It  is 
what  I was  thinking  all  the  time.  I must  have 
written  it — and  yet — yet  I did  not  intend  writing 
it;  the  fact  is,  Mr.  Brangwyn,  the  letter  I did 
actually  send  you  was  quite  different  from  this. 
I cannot  understand  it.  I was  most  anxious  to 
hide  from  every  one  what  I intended  doing ” 


54 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


“ And  a very  pretty  scheme  it  was ! ” said  the 
young  banker.  “ Why,  my  good  fellow,  it  is 
about  the  maddest  piece  of  Quixotism  I ever 
heard  of!  To  save  your  friends  from  a little 
anxiety  and  trouble — which  is  about  all  that 
could  be  involved  in  an  inquiry  into  the  circum- 
stances of  the  robbery — you  propose  to  deprive 
an  old  man  of  his  only  son,  and  a young  girl  of 
her  sweetheart,  to  say  nothing  of  throwing  away 
your  own  life,  which  you  have  no  right  to  do. 
And  so  I only  got  to  know  the  truth  by  some 
incomprehensible  accident  ? Y our  hand  deceived 
your  eye,  or  something  of  that  kind?  Well, 
whatever  it  is,  there  is  to  be  no  more  talk  about 
suicide.  What  you  must  do  now  is  to  come  along 
at  once  to  Scotland  Yard ” 

Arthur  Hughes  started  and  changed  color ; 
and  the  banker  instantly  noticed  that  involun- 
tary tremor  of  apprehension. 

“Nothing  serious,”  said  he,  good-naturedly. 
“You  must  give  them  such  particulars  of  the  rob- 
bery as  you  can.  A clerk  in  the  London  and 
Westminster  remembers  something  of  a man 
who  was  standing  at  the  counter  just  before  your 
satchel  was  lost.” 

“ I could  identify  the  man  who  spoke  to  me 
anywhere!  ” young  Hughes  said  with  eagerness; 
for  those  shackles  and  trammels  that  his  sensi- 
tive imagination  had  bound  upon  him  seemed  to 


A MYSTERY  55 

be  falling  off  one  by  one,  and  be  was  beginning 
to  breathe  a little  more  freely. 

“ And  you  need  not  be  afraid  about  yourself, 
Hughes,”  the  banker  continued,  “as  you  appear 
from  your  letter  to  have  been.  My  partners  as 
well  as  myself  accept  your  story,  though  you 
must  perceive  you  did  a very  foolish  thing  in  not 
at  once  returning  to  the  bank  yesterday  after- 
noon. And  about  the  money:  the  larger  notes 
cannot  have  been  negotiated,  and  the  numbers 
will  be  in  all  the  papers  to-morrow ; the  damage 
will  not  be  so  great,  even  if  we  do  not  get  hold 
of  the  men.  Now,  come  along.  We  will  take 
Inspector  Jameson  with  us — and  the  less  time  we 
lose  the  better.” 

And  so,  after  all,  Arthur  Hughes  found  him- 
self in  that  dreaded  Scotland  Yard.  But  of  what 
happened  to  him  there — whom  he  saw — what 
questions  were  put  to  him — or  how  he  answered 
them,  he  had  but  the  haziest  knowledge.  For 
one  thing,  he  had  been  up  all  night,  wandering 
through  those  dark  and  silent  streets.  Then  he 
had  had  no  food  since  the  previous  day.  But 
above  all,  the  distressing  emotions  that  had 
shaken  him  had  left  him  the  mere  wreck  of  his 
natural  self.  He  had,  as  it  were,  tasted  the  bit- 
terness of  death;  and  now  that  he  had  been 
plucked  back  from  the  very  verge  of  the  grave, 
he  had  not  quite  recovered  his  full  perceptions. 


56 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


How  had  all  this  come  about?  By  what  mysteri- 
ous means  had  Mr.  Brangwyn  become  possessed 
of  his  secret?  Who  had  betrayed  him,  when  the 
fulfilment  of  his  scheme  of  self-sacrifice  seemed 
within  his  reach? 

“ Mr.  Brangwyn,”  he  said  suddenly,  when  they 
were  on  their  way  back  to  the  bank,  “ will  you 
show  me  that  letter  again?  ” 

The  letter  was  produced,  and  Hughes  studied 
it  long  and  reflectively. 

“No;  I never  wrote  it,”  he  said.  “I  never 
wrote  that.  That  is  what  I had  in  my  mind, 
certainly;  it  is  true  enough;  but  the  letter  I sent 
you  was  different.  Even  the  ink : the  ink  I wrote 
with  was  violet;  this  is  black.” 

“The  color  of  ink  may  change,  you  know,” 
said  Mr.  Brangwyn. 

“Yes;  but  not  what  you  have  written  with  it 
— unless — unless ’ ’ 

He  paused  for  a second  or  two  in  silence.  He 
began  to  recall  the  circumstances  in  which  he 
had  become  possessed  of  the  violet-hued  ink. 
He  recollected  his  bewilderment  and  conster- 
nation on  finding  the  money  gone ; his  rushing 
down  the  narrow  thoroughfare ; his  accidentally 
knocking  over  the  little  Eastern-looking  man; 
his  apology ; the  presentation  of  the  small  phial ; 
and  his  subsequent  writing  of  the  letters.  And 
that  lilac-colored  fluid,  the  curious  odor  of  which 


A MYSTERY 


57 


had  risen  to  his  nostrils  the  moment  he  had 
opened  the  bottle : had  it  some  occult  and  mys- 
terious effect  on  brain  and  vision,  so  that  the 
writer  could  not  see  what  he  was  actually  writ- 
ing? Or  had  it  some  strange  necromantic  power 
of  changing,  along  with  its  change  in  color,  that 
which  was  written  into  what  the  writer  had 
really  been  thinking?  And  had  the  Malay,  or 
Lascar,  or  Hindoo  given  him  this  truth-telling 
ink  in  order  to  do  him  a mischief? 

“I  suppose  I must  have  written  this  letter,” 
said  he,  absently.  “No  one  but  myself  could 
have  written  it.  No  one  but  myself  knew  all 
the  circumstances.  And  yet  I don’t  remember 
writing  it.  No,  indeed ; what  I remember  writ- 
ing was  entirely  different.  I wrote  you  a merely 
formal  note  saying  I was  about  to  leave  the  coun- 
try, and  begging  you  as  a favor  not  to  make  in- 
quiries down  at — down  at  Llanly.  I wished  no 
one  to  know  what  had  become  of  me ; I wished 
no  one  to  suspect ” 

“You  must  have  been  out  of  your  mind  to  be 
contemplating  such  things ! ” said  the  banker,  in 
a kindly  way.  “ But  whatever  you  intended  to 
write,  it  is  a very  good  thing  that  the  letter  I 
actually  received  put  matters  so  very  plainly; 
for  I mean  to  see  that  that  delusion  about  suicide 
and  self-sacrifice  is  banished  out  of  your  head. 
Romanticism,  my  dear  fellow:  it’s  your  Celtic 


58 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


nature,  all  simmering  with  high-flown  notions; 
what  you  want  is  a little  cool,  calm  common- 
sense  of  a wholesome  Saxon  kind.  And  the  best 
thing  now,  after  we  have  reported  ourselves  at 
the  bank,  is  for  you  to  go  away  home  to  your 
lodgings,  and  have  some  food,  and  lie  down  and 
get  some  sleep.  You  look  tired;  pranks  like 
walking  about  all  night  are  not  good  for  the  ner- 
vous system.” 

And  this  advice  the  young  man  eventually  fol- 
lowed, walking  home  by  the  Blackfriars  Road,  in 
order  to  have  another  glance  at  the  coffee-house 
in  which  he  had  written  the  three  letters.  He 
regarded  it  with  a secret  dread ; he  had  suffered 
much  in  that  dusky  little  place ; it  was  there  he 
had  bade  good-by  to  life.  And  if  that  extreme 
step  were  no  longer  necessary — if  there  was  to 
be  no  public  inquiry,  no  prosecution,  that  could 
bring  shame  on  his  dear  ones  at  home — so  far 
well ; but  his  own  case  was  not  much  bettered. 
For  had  he  not  cut  himself  off  from  kith  and  kin ; 
and  made  an  outcast  of  himself ; and  bade  a last 
adieu  to  the  girl  who,  brave  in  her  love,  had 
chosen  to  throw  in  her  lot  with  his?  He  could 
not  go  to  them  now  and  try  to  explain  away 
those  letters  he  had  sent  them.  He  had  signed 
the  decree  of  his  own  banishment.  He  was  to 
live,  it  was  true ; but  he  was  to  live  alone,  apart, 
and  silent.  It  almost  seemed  to  him,  while  he 


A MYSTERY 


59 


walked  slowly  and  listlessly  away  out  to  Ken- 
nington,  as  though  life  in  such  conditions  were 
not  much  preferable  to  a grave  in  the  wide  At- 
lantic seas. 

When  he  reached  his  lodgings  he  was  surprised 
to  find  a telegram  and  a letter  awaiting  him,  and 
he  was  still  more  startled  by  the  contents  of  the 
former : 

“For  heaven’s  sake  do  nothing  rash.  Your 
father  and  I are  coming  to  see  you  at  once. 

“Winnie.” 

What  could  it  mean?  His  father  and  Winnie 
Davies  on  their  way  to  London  ? 

Then  he  quickly  turned  to  the  letter,  to  see  if 
that  would  afford  any  explanation.  But  as  he 
read  on,  it  soon  became  clear  to  him  that  these 
rambling,  whimsical,  light-hearted  pages  had  no 
connection  whatever  with  recent  and  tragic 
events.  This  merry  epistle  belonged  to  the 
happy  time — before  life  had  grown  black : doubt- 
less she  had  written  and  posted  it  before  his  fare- 
well message  had  reached  her.  And  it  was  with 
a strange  kind  of  feeling  that  he  regarded  her 
in  this  gay  mood. 

“Do  you  know,”  she  wrote,  “that  there  has 
been  a most  desperate  fight  between  me  and  that 
Other  Winnie;  and  if  we  remain  on  speaking 
terms,  that’s  about  all  that  can  be  said.  This  is 


6o 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


how  it  came  about.  You  remember  Dick  Grif- 
fith? Well,  when  he  came  home  from  Bristol 
last  week  he  brought  for  me  a most  beautifully- 
bound  copy  of  ‘The  Songs  of  Wales,’  and  he 
called  and  left  it,  with  a message.  And  I con- 
fess, Arthur,  I was  very  much  pleased ; for  blue 
smooth  morocco  is  so  nice,  and  only  a single  line 
of  gold ; but  somehow — there  was  a suspicion — I 
grew  uncomfortable — I was  frightened  of  that 
Other  One — and  at  last  I went  and  opened  the 
mirror. 

“‘Have  you  got  anything  to  say?’  I asked. 
(You  should  have  seen  her  temper!) 

“‘Send  that  book  back  at  once!’  she  cried. 
‘As  politely  as  you  like — but  back  it  goes,  and 
at  once ! I tell  you  I will  not  allow  you  to  ac- 
cept any  present  from  any  young  man.’ 

“Well,  Arthur,  my  Ordinary  Self — I told  you 
what  a mean,  shabby,  useless,  commonplace  kind 
of  creature  she  is — began  to  fret  and  grumble, 
and  that  only  made  the  Other  Self  more  indig- 
nant. 

“ ‘ For  one  thing,  ’ she  said,  ‘if  you  had  an  atom 
of  pride,  you  would  refuse  to  look  at  any  collec- 
tion of  Welsh  songs  that  did  not  include  “The 
Bells  of  Llanly,”  and  that  had  not  the  name  of 
Arthur  Hughes  in  the  index.  But  you — who  are 
you?  a contemptible  creature!  It’s  a good  thing 
Arthur  knows  so  little  about  you!’ 


A MYSTERY 


61 


‘“And  you,’  I retorted  (for  I was  a little  bit 
angry) — ‘you  give  yourself  pretty  fine  airs,  all 
because  of  your  constancy  in  absence ! It  is  so 
rare  a virtue ! It  is  so  wonderful  a thing  that  a 
girl  should  keep  to  her  plighted  troth ! ’ 

“‘I  do  not  give  myself  airs!’  she  said,  with 
most  infinite  assurance.  ‘I  take  no  credit  for  my 
constancy  at  all!  And  why?  Simply  because 
there  is  no  one  like  him ; there  is  no  one  to  com- 
pare with  him;  and,  besides  that,  I can  look 
forward  and  see  what  is  awaiting  him  in  the 
future.  But  you — you  don’t  understand  such 
things;  you  are  a poor  wretch.  However,  I’m 
going  to  have  one  word  more  with  you  before 
I’m  done;  and  I will  thank  you  to  listen.  You 
know  what  Dick  Griffith  is;  he’s  always  dang- 
ling after  somebody.  And  you  know  what  that 
present  means.  If  you  keep  it,  then  he  will  call 
and  see  you.  Then  he  will  call  again.  Then  he 
will  come  in  of  an  evening,  to  chat  with  your 
father.  Then  he  will  walk  home  with  you  from 
the  meetings  of  the  choir.  And  then  perhaps — 
some  Sunday  morning — oh,  you  despicable,  de- 
ceitful craven ! — you  will  allow  him  to  go  away 
out  to  Megan’s  farm  with  you — and  he  will 
dawdle  about,  while  you  pick  a few  wild  flowers 
to  send  to  London.  To  send  to  London!  You 
miserable  wretch ! But  I have  warned  you ! I 
will  keep  an  eye  on  you.  You  can’t  any  longer 


62 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


pretend  ignorance  of  what  presents  and  visits 
may  lead  to,  in  the  case  of  a girl  whose  sweet- 
heart is  far  away,  and  who  finds  herself  pretty 
much  alone.  I am  going  to  make  you  check  all 
those  things  at  the  very  outset,  my  fine  madam!’ 

“ ‘ But  if  Arthur  allows  me  to  keep  it,  ’ I said, 
rather  sullenly,  ‘what  right  would  you  have  to 
interfere  then?’ 

“This  made  her  angrier  than  ever;  you  never 
saw  anything  like  it ! 

“‘What!  you  would  ask  for  permission?  You 
would  impose  on  his  generosity?  For  shame! 
Have  you  no  finer  feeling  at  all?’ 

“ 4 That  morocco  is  as  smooth  as  velvet  or  silk ; 
that’s  what  I know.’ 

“ She  tried  to  wither  me  with  scornful  glances. 

“‘No,  you  have  no  shame.  I must  take  an- 
other way  with  you.  You  must  be  compelled  and 
coerced.  No  presents  from  any  young  man  so 
long  as  I have  the  mastery  over  you ! I order 
you  to  pack  up  that  book,  write  a note,  and  send 
them  off  forthwith.  I will  undertake  that  there 
shall  be  no  parleyings,  no  hesitations : I tell  you, 
you  have  got  to  deal  with  me!’ 

“ So  you  see  what  a remorseless  tyrant  she  is, 
dear  Arthur;  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  cover  up  again  that  beautiful  blue  book,  and 
send  it  away.  You  may  say  that  I earned  the 
approval  of  my  conscience;  but  that  isn’t  so,  for 


A REUNION 


63 


I haven’t  any;  it’s  my  Other  Self  who  has  the 
conscience ; and  she  only  uses  it  when  she  wants 
to  terrify  me.  Can  you  wonder  that  we  are 
hardly  on  speaking  terms?  ” 

And  so  the  careless,  playful,  prattling  letter 
went  on;  but  he  grew  less  and  less  interested. 
It  had  no  bearing  on  the  present  circumstances ; 
it  had  been  written  in  happier  moments.  But 
this  telegram,  with  its  announcement  that  his 
father  and  Winnie  Davies  were  on  their  way  to 
London?  He  stared  at  the  oblong  piece  of  paper 
— comprehending  nothing. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A REUNION 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  two 
strangers,  an  old  man  and  a young  girl,  arrived 
at  Paddington  Station.  They  had  no  luggage 
save  such  bits  of  things  as  they  carried ; the  por- 
ters paid  little  attention  to  them ; and  for  a second 
or  two  they  seemed  confused  and  bewildered  by 
the  bustle  and  echoing  din  of  this  vast  place. 
But  presently  the  white-haired  old  minister  and 
the  timid,  pretty,  shy-eyed  girl  along  with  him, 
had  instinctively  followed  the  crowd  to  the  out- 
side platform ; and  here  the  minister  (with  some 


6 4 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


nervous  diffidence)  engaged  a four-wheeled  cab ; 
the  man  was  given  an  address  in  Kennington; 
and  then  the  two  travellers  resigned  themselves 
to  the  long  and  tedious  drive  toward  that  distant 
quarter  of  the  town. 

For  a time  they  were  silent — silent  and  pre- 
occupied ; and  the  faces  of  both  were  anxious  and 
careworn.  But  presently  the  minister,  looking 
out  of  the  window  at  those  unknown  streets  and 
thoroughfares,  said  in  an  absent  sort  of  way : 

“ It  is  a great  city,  that  has  swallowed  up  the 
lives  and  souls  of  many.  Thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  poor  human  creatures  have  gone  down 
in  its  deep  waters,  with  hardly  even  a cry ” 

“But  not  Arthur — not  our  Arthur!”  the  girl 
interposed,  piteously.  “ He  could  not  have  been 
so  rash,  so  desperate;  he  must  have  got  my  tele- 
gram ; and  if  he  knew  we  were  coming  to  see 
him,  he  would  certainly  remain  in  London; 
surely  he  would  not  do  anything  dreadful  if  he 
knew  we  were  on  our  way  to  him ” 

“And  if  we  are  too  late,”  the  old  man  said, 
with  a certain  calm  and  sad  resignation,  “if  the 
boy  has  committed  this  sin,  it  is  not  for  us  to 
become  his  judges.  The  great  Judge  alone  can 
read  the  hearts  of  men : he  alone  can  make  allow- 
ance for  motives : he  can  forgive  much  to  one  that 
has  loved  much.”  Then  he  murmured  to  him- 
self : “ Quia  multum  amavit — quia  multum  aniavit .” 


A REUNION 


65 


But  she — the  girl  sitting  here,  with  her  pale 
face  harassed  and  apprehensive,  and  with  those 
beautiful  violet  eyes  showing  that  tears  had  vis- 
ited them  only  too  frequently  during  the  past 
anxious  hours — was  she  likely  to  condemn  too 
harshly?  The  letter  she  had  received,  the  letter 
that  conveyed  to  her  the  terrible  tidings  that 
had  brought  her  thus  suddenly  to  London,  had 
breathed  the  very  spirit  of  unselfishness.  Even 
now,  in  this  cab,  as  they  traversed  the  ceaseless 
thoroughfares  of  this  great  desert  of  a city,  she 
could  recall  each  simple  and  pathetic  phrase  and 
sentence ; it  was  as  if  he  himself  were  talking  to 
her ; and  as  if  the  appeal  were  to  her  very  heart 
of  hearts. 

“After  all,”  he  had  written — or,  at  least,  this 
was  what  she  had  read — “ After  all,  this  reso- 
lution I have  come  to  is  but  a poor  enough  re- 
turn for  the  great  love  and  affection  that  both 
my  father  and  yourself  have  given  me.  Think 
of  the  long  years  of  care  he  has  bestowed  on  me, 
and  constant  sympathy  and  generous  consider- 
ation; never  had  any  son  such  a father.  But 
when  I come  to  speak  of  you,  my  dearest,  my 
very  dearest,  what  am  I to  say?  Did  you  ever 
understand  your  own  courage,  your  own  inde- 
pendence and  disinterestedness,  when  you  de- 
cided to  cast  in  your  lot  with  mine  ? Again  and 


66 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


again  I have  told  you  I was  not  worthy  of  such 
loyal  and  self-sacrificing  love ; I have  shown  you 
how  precarious  was  my  position — how  uncertain 
my  future ; but  no — you  were  always  the  proud 
one — you  were  not  to  be  daunted.”  . . . “And 
now,  after  having  received  so  much  devoted 
affection  and  kindness  and  sympathy  from  my 
two  dear  ones,  do  you  think  I am  going  to  let 
any  disgrace  fall  on  them  through  any  doings  of 
mine?  No,  no.  They  are  of  importance;  I am 
nothing.  Some  one  else  will  write  the  Caradoc 
cantata — though  he  may  not  know  of  your  clever 
suggestion  that  an  under- wail  of  Morfa  Rhuddlan 
should  run  all  through  it;  and  perhaps  you  will 
go  to  hear  it  at  the  Hereford  Musical  Festival; 
and  you  will  say,  ‘ It  may  be  Arthur  could  have 
written  it  as  well  as  that ; but  perhaps  he  could 
not ; it  was  merely  promise  in  his  case,  that  had 
no  chance  of  fulfilment.’  I wish  I could  have 
completed  a little  song  I meant  to  send  you.  I 
had  just  about  got  the  air  in  my  head  when  the 
dreadful  thing  happened,  and  now  all  that  has 
gone  by.  A darkness  has  fallen  over  my  life — 
such  shred  of  life  as  now  remains  to  me.  And  a 
deeper  darkness  is  to  follow.”  . . . “My  dearest, 
how  kind  to  me  you  were  in  the  old  days!  Do 
you  remember  the  wood  beyond  Megan’s  farm; 
and  the  little  plank  bridge  over  the  brook ; and 
the  Sunday  mornings  in  spring-time  when  you 


A REUNION 


67 


used  to  go  to  gather  anemones,  and  wild  hya- 
cinths, and  campions?  The  neighbors  used  to 
say  we  were  only  boy  and  girl ; but  we  were  look- 
ing far  ahead ; and  you  were  always  the  hopeful 
one,  the  light-hearted  one,  with  more  than  the 
courage  of  a woman.  As  we  sat  and  talked,  I 
saw  strange  things  in  your  eyes — dreams  and 
pictures — pictures  of  the  long  years  before  us — 
and  you  always  by  my  side — and  perhaps  one  or 
two  of  the  things  you  prophesied  come  true — and 
myself  very  grateful  to  you  for  your  constant 
faith  and  upholding  and  courage.  It  was  a 
happy  time.  You  put  a kind  of  fairyland  round 
the  poor  assistant  clerk  at  the ' slate-works ; and 
love  was  the  light  and  color  of  it ; and  the  music 
that  was  in  the  air  was  the  sound  of  your  voice. 
So  much,  and  far  more,  you  did  for  me:  is  it 
likely  I should  hesitate  when  I find  before  me  a 
means  of  saving  you — and  saving  my  father — 
from  having  to  hang  your  head  in  shame?  ”... 
“And  now,  Winnie,  this  is  farewell  between  you 
and  me — a farewell  forever  in  this  world.  When 
you  get  this  letter  I shall  have  taken  my  pas- 
sage in  an  outward-bound  steamer;  but  I shall 
never  reach  any  port.  There  will  be  no  arrest 
of  the  absconding  clerk ; the  Atlantic  will  make 
sure  of  that.  And  of  course  you  know  that  I am 
innocent — that  I did  not  take  the  money;  others 
might  be  more  difficult  to  convince;  but  this 


68 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


step  now  will  guard  you  from  any  possible  dis- 
grace on  my  account.  And  you  will  forget  me 
soon ; I wish  that,  for  I wish  you  to  be  happy. 
If  I were  alive,  it  would  break  my  heart  to  think 
of  your  marrying  any  one  else;  but  the  dead 
have  no  hearts  to  break.  And  so,  good-by  for- 
ever in  this  world — good-by,  and  God  bless  you 
— and  do  your  best  to  forget  all  there  was  be- 
tween you  and  me. 

“Arthur  Hughes.” 

Would  these  monotonous  and  sombre  thorough- 
fares never  end?  She  seemed  to  have  got  lost 
in  a very  ocean  of  streets  and  houses — an  ocean 
dull  and  dismal,  vast  and  shoreless,  the  unceas- 
ing, inarticulate  noise  of  which  was  stupefying 
to  the  brain.  How  different  from  the  pleas- 
ant woodland  ways  round  Llanly,  about  which 
the  poor  banished  lad  must  have  been  think- 
ing when  he  penned  this  farewell  message ! 
And  had  she  not  been  largely  instrumental  in 
severing  him  from  that  quiet  and  simple  life  and 
consigning  him  to  this  great  and  dreadful  city? 
Was  not  she  in  a measure  responsible  for  this 
that  had  happened — though  what  it  was  she  could 
not  as  yet  in  any  wise  conjecture?  For  it  was 
all  a bewilderment  to  her — a bewilderment  of 
dismay,  and  piteous  longing,  and  trembling  hope, 
and  feverish  impatience.  She  sat  silent  now; 


A REUNION 


69 


those  sentences  from  his  letter  burning  clear,  as 
it  were,  before  her  eyes.  She  hardly  paid  heed 
to  what  was  outside — to  that  endless  procession 
of  gloomy  houses  that  went  by  like  a dream. 
And  the  old  man  was  silent  too ; it  was  hardly 
1 time  for  talk. 

At  last,  after  what  had  appeared  to  them  an 
interminable  journey,  the  cabman  drew  up  in 
front  of  a house  in  the  Kennington  Park  Road. 
The  sudden  cessation  of  the  noise  and  rattle  was 
a startling  thing ; perhaps  it  was  that  that  caused 
Winnie  Davies’  face  to  blanch  as  if  in  fear. 
But  the  minister  was  apparently  quite  calm  and 
collected.  He  got  out ; glanced  at  the  number 
of  the  house  to  see  that  it  was  correct ; paid  the 
cabman  what  he  asked;  and  then  crossed  the 
pavement,  the  girl  following.  He  knocked  at 
the  door. 

The  moments  of  delay  that  ensued  were  terri- 
ble ; the  silence  was  terrible.  The  house  was  as 
a house  of  the  dead.  Were  they  too  late,  then? 
Neither  spoke.  The  girl’s  hands,  folded  upon 
the  little  bag  she  was  carrying,  trembled  some- 
what; but  she  did  not  know  that.  She  was 
watching  and  listening,  with  a nervous  strain 
that  almost  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  breathe. 

Then  there  was  a sound ; the  door  opened ; a 
tall,  thin,  sad-visaged  woman  appeared. 

“Is — is  Mr.  Arthur  Hughes  at  home?”  the 


7° 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


minister  asked : there  was  only  the  slightest 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

“No,  sir,”  the  landlady  made  answer;  and 
yet,  strangely  enough,  she  stepped  back  a little 
as  if  inviting  these  visitors  to  pass.  “ Not  yet, 
sir.  But  he  left  a message,  sir,  that  if  you  and 
the  young  lady  was  to  arrive  before  he  came 
back,  I was  to  say  he  would  be  home  as  soon  as 
he  could ” 

“ He  left  that  message  to-day — this  morning?  ” 
the  minister  said,  quickly,  but  still  maintaining 
that  outward  calm. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  the  melancholy-visaged  wom- 
an ; “ and  if  you  would  kindly  step  in  and  wait  a 
little,  sir,  which  it  is  near  his  usual  time  of  com- 
ing home  in  any  case ” 

“And  he  is  quite  well,  I presume?  ” the  min- 
ister said,  with  something  of  hesitation,  as  he 
passed  into  the  lobby,  followed  by  the  trembling 
girl. 

“ Oh,  yes,  sir — leastways  he  has  been  a little 
flurried  and  hanxious,  as  any  one  could  see,  the 
last  day  or  two,”  answered  the  landlady,  as  she 
showed  them  upstairs  to  the  young  man’s  room. 
She  was  very  civil.  She  offered  them  tea,  which 
both  declined.  Indeed,  Winnie  Davies  was 
hardly  capable  of  responding  to  the  good  wo- 
man, so  entirely  was  she  overcome  by  this  agony 
of  suspense  which  she  had  come  through.  She 


A REUNION 


71 


sat  limply  in  lier  chair,  her  hands  clinched 
nervously  together ; her  breathing  low  and 
strained.  It  had  been  a sore  ordeal. 

But  all  at  once  a new  vitality  seemed  to  leap 
through  her  frame.  She  sprang  to  her  feet — 
listening  intently. 

“ It’s  Arthur!  it’s  Arthur!  ” she  cried. 

She  rushed  to  the  door,  threw  it  open,  went 
out  on  to  the  landing ; and  the  next  moment  she 
had  caught  her  lover  by  the  hand — by  both 
hands — by  the  arm — and  was  caressing  him,  and 
reproaching  him,  and  pulling  him  into  the  room, 
all  at  the  same  time.  She  was  laughing  and 
crying ; her  face  beaming  with  delight,  and  yet 
her  dark  lashes  swimming  with  tears;  and  it 
looked  as  though  she  could  not  let  go  her  hold  of 
him,  so  eager  was  she  to  assure  herself  that  he 
was  alive  and  well. 

“O  Arthur,  how  could  you  think  of  doing 
such  a dreadful  thing!  ” she  exclaimed — but  her 
upbraiding  was  only  in  the  words:  there  was 
none  in  her  shining  and  joyful  eyes.  “ To  save 
us  from  a little  trouble,  you  would  go  and  break 
our  hearts!  ” 

“To  say  nothing  of  the  grievous  sin  involved,” 
said  the  minister,  more  gravely.  “ I little 
thought  any  son  of  mine  would  have  contemplated 
such  a crime,  no  matter  what  excuse  might  be 
blinding  his  eyes  and  blunting  his  conscience.” 


72 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


“But — but — how  did  you  come  to  know?” 
said  the  young  man,  in  his  amazement.  “ Fa- 
ther— Winnie — what  brought  you  to  London? 
Who  told  you  what  I meant  to  do?  Did  Mr. 
Brangwyn  telegraph  to  you?  ” 

“Arthur,  your  own  letters!”  said  Winnie 
Davies. 

And  of  a sudden  a wild  conjecture  flashed 
through  the  young  man’s  mind.  Had  all  of 
those  three  farewell  letters  written  in  the  dingy 
little  coffee-house  been  perverted  from  their 
intended  purpose?  Had  each  one  of  them  re- 
vealed what  he  was  actually  thinking  at  the  mo- 
ment of  writing?  Had  the  mysterious  ink 
betrayed  him  in  each  several  direction? 

And  therewithal  he  sat  down  and  gave  them 
a minute  and  circumstantial  account  of  all  that 
had  happened  to  him  during  those  last  eventful 
days.  And  he  insisted  that  in  not  one  of  the 
three  letters  he  had  written  had  he  thrown  out 
the  least  hint  as  to  the  resolve  he  had  formed ; 
on  the  contrary,  all  three  had  been  composed 
with  the  express  object  of  concealment — to  save 
his  friends  from  useless  sorrow. 

“But  look,  Arthur!  ” said  Winnie  Davies,  and 
with  trembling  fingers  she  drew  from  her  pocket 
that  farewell  message  that  had  been  haunting 
her  during  all  the  long  journey. 

As  the  young  man  glanced  his  eye  over  these 


A REUNION 


73 


pages,  he  seemed  to  become  more  and  more  as- 
tounded. 

“Yes — yes!”  he  said.  “That  is  what  I was 
thinking  at  the  time ; but  not  what  I wrote  to 
you,  Winnie;  not  what  I intended  to  write,  any- 
way. This  is  true  enough ; but  I did  not  want 
you  to  know.  There  could  not  have  been  some 
glamour,  some  madness,  over  my  eyes,  that  pre- 
vented my  seeing  what  I was  actually  writing? 
No,  it  must  have  been  the  ink ; the  little  yellow 
scoundrel  meant  to  revenge  himself  on  me  for 
having  tumbled  him  into  the  gutter;  and  the 
truth-telling  ink  was  to  work  mischief ” 

“Where  is  the  bottle,  Arthur?  ” Winnie  asked 
promptly. 

“ I threw  it  away  yesterday  morning,”  he  said; 
and  then  he  added:  “ I thought  I had  no  further 
need  of  it — no,  nor  of  anything  else.” 

“ That  is  a strange  phantasy  of  yours,  Arthur,” 
said  the  minister,  slowly,  “about  the  ink  that 
revealed  the  writer’s  thoughts  in  spite  of  himself 
— a phantasy  it  must  be,  and  nothing  more. 
Nevertheless,  one  might  find  in  it  the  material 
for  a parable,  as  to  the  advantages  of  telling  the 
truth.” 

“Oh,  I don’t  care  how  it  all  came  about!” 
Winnie  Davies  cried  in  her  gladness,  and  now 
she  was  standing  by  the  young  man’s  chair,  and 
her  arm  was  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  had  taken 

4 


74 


THE  MAGIC  INK 


his  hand  in  hers.  “I  don’t  care  at  all.  If  the 
spiteful  little  foreigner  gave  you  that  ink  so  that 
you  should  get  into  trouble,  he  was  entirely  out- 
witted ; and  all  that  has  happened  is  that  your 
father  and  I have  come  to  London.  And  since 
we  are  in  London,  do  you  know  where  you  must 
take  me?  to  the  Crystal  Palace!  To-morrow 
afternoon — Saturday  afternoon — to  the  Crystal 
Palace ! ” 

“And  why  the  Crystal  Palace,  Winnie?”  he 
asked. 

“Why?”  said  she,  boldly.  “Why  but  that  I 
want  to  see  where  you  will  be  standing  up  in 
front  of  the  great  chorus,  conducting  the  per- 
formance of  your  own  cantata — if  not  Cctradoc, 
then  some  other  one.” 

“Dreams!  ” said  he,  laughing. 

“Dreams  come  true  sometimes,”  said  this  un- 
daunted young  person,  whose  very  winsome  face 
and  beautiful  eyes  were  all  aglow  now  with  pride 
and  happiness  and  confidence.  “And  what  is 
more : I am  coming  to  London  to  be  present  at 
that  performance — ay,  if  I have  to  walk  every 
mile  of  the  way ! ” 


A HALLOWE’EN  WRAITH 


A HALLOWE’EN  WRAITH 


i 

The  vast  bulk  of  Ben  Clebrig  was  dark  in 
shadow,  but  the  wide  waters  of  Loch  Naver 
shone  a soft  silver-gray  in  the  moonlight,  as  Hec- 
tor MacIntyre,  keeper  and  forester  in  the  far 
solitudes  of  Glengorm,  came  striding  along  the 
road  toward  Inver-Mudal.  As  he  approached 
the  little  hamlet — which  consists  merely  of  the 
inn  and  its  surroundings  and  one  or  two  keepers’ 
cottages — certain  small  points  of  red  told  him  of 
its  whereabouts  among  the  black  trees ; and  as 
he  drew  still  nearer  he  thought  he  would  let  the 
good  people  there  know  of  his  coming.  Hector 
had  brought  his  pipes  with  him,  for  there  were 
to  be  great  doings  on  this  Hallowe’en  night; 
and  now,  when  he  had  inflated  the  bag  and  tuned 
the  drones,  there  sprang  into  the  profound  si- 
lence reigning  everywhere  around  the  wild  skirl 
of  the  “Hills  of  Glenorchy.”  Surely  the  sound 
would  reach,  and  carry  its  message?  If  not, 
here  was  “Gillie,  a Drover,”  played  still  more 

77 


78 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


bravely;  and  again  the  proud  strains  of  “The 
Glen’s  Mine!  ” By  which  time  he  had  got  near 
to  the  inn,  and  was  about  to  turn  down  from  the 
highway  by  the  semicircular  drive  passing  the 
front  door. 

But  here  he  suddenly  encountered  a fearful 
sight.  From  out  of  the  dusk  of  the  wall  sur- 
rounding the  front  garden  there  came  three  lumi- 
nous objects — threa.  globes  of  a dull  saffron  hue ; 
and  on  each  of  these  appeared  the  features  of  a 
face — eyes,  mouth,  and  nose — all  flaming  in  fire. 
On  beholding  this  terrible  thing  the  tall,  brown- 
bearded  forester  turned  and  fled ; and  the  pipes 
told  of  his  dismay ; for  they  shrieked  and  groaned 
and  made  all  sorts  of  indescribable  noises,  as  if 
they  too  were  in  mortal  alarm.  Then  Mrs.  Mur- 
ray’s three  children,  with  victorious  shouts  of 
laughter,  pursued  the  tall  forester,  and  kept  wav- 
ing before  them  the  hollowed-out  turnips  with 
the  bit  of  candle  burning  within.  When  he  had 
got  up  to  the  corner  of  the  road,  Hector  turned 
and  addressed  the  children,  who  had  come  crowd- 
ing round  him,  holding  up  their  flaming  turnips 
to  cause  him  still  further  consternation. 

“Well,  now,”  said  he,  in  the  Gaelic,  “that  is 
a fearful  thing  to  alarm  any  poor  person  with. 
Were  you  not  thinking  I should  die  of  fright? 
And  the  pipes  squealing  as  well,  for  they  never 
saw  anything  like  that  before.  But  never  mind, 


FROM  OUT  OF  THE  DUSK  OF  THE  WALI 


A IiALLOWE  EN  WRAITH 


79 


we  are  going  down  to  the  house  now ; and,  do 
you  know,  Ronald,  and  Isabel,  and  you,  little 
Shena — do  you  know,  I have  brought  you  some 
of  the  fir  tops  that  grow  in  Glengorm.  For  it  is 
a wonderful  place,  Glengorm ; and  the  fir  tops 
that  grow  on  the  larches  there  are  not  as  the  fir 
tops  that  grow  anywhere  else.  They  are  very 
small,  and  they  are  round,  and  some  are  pink, 
and  some  are  blue,  and  some  are  black  and 
white,  and  some  others — why,  they  have  an  al- 
mond inside  them ! Oh,  it  is  a wonderful  place, 
Glengorm ! but  it  is  not  always  you  can  get  the 
fir  tops  from  the  larches;  it  is  only  on  some 
great  occasion  like  the  Hallowe’en  night;  and 
let  me  see,  now,  if  I put  any  of  them  in  my 
pocket.  Here,  Ronald,  take  the  pipes  from  me, 
and  hold  them  properly  on  your  shoulder — for 
one  day  you  will  be  playing  ‘Miss  Ramsay’s 
Strathspey’  as  well  as  any  one — and  I will  search 
my  pockets,  and  see  if  I put  any  of  those  won- 
derful fir  tops  into  them.” 

The  children  knew  very  well  what  all  this 
preamble  meant ; but  neither  they  nor  their  elders 
could  have  told  how  it  was  that  Hector  Mac- 
Intyre, every  time  he  came  to  Inver-Mudal, 
brought  with  him  packages  of  sweetmeats, 
though  he  lived  in  one  of  the  most  inaccessible 
districts  in  Sutherland,  Glengorm  being  about 
two-and-twenty  miles  away  from  anywhere. 


8o 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


However,  here  were  the  precious  little  parcels; 
and  when  they  had  been  distributed,  Hector  took 
his  pipes  again,  and,  escorted  by  his  small 
friends,  went  down  to  the  inn. 

Well,  Mr.  Murray,  the  innkeeper,  had  also 
heard  the  distant  skirl  of  the  pipes,  and  here  he 
was  at  the  door. 

“ How  are  you,  Hector?  ” he  asked,  in  the  Gae- 
lic. “ And  what  is  your  news?  ” 

“There  is  not  much  news  in  Glengorm,”  was 
the  answer. 

“ And  when  is  your  wedding  to  be?  ” Mr.  Mur- 
ray said.  “We  will  make  a grand  day  of  that 
day,  Hector.  And  I have  been  thinking  I will 
get  some  of  the  lads  to  kindle  a bonfire  on  the 
top  of  Ben  Clebrig — a fire  that  they  will  see 
down  in  Ross-shire.  And  there’s  many  a pistol 
and  many  a gun  will  make  a crack  when  you 
drive  up  to  this  door  and  bring  your  bride  in. 
For  I am  one  who  believes  in  the  old  customs; 
and  whether  it  is  a wedding,  or  the  New  Year, 
or  Hallowe’en  night,  I am  for  the  old  ways,  and 
the  Free  Church  ministers  can  say  what  they 
like.  Now  come  away  in,  Hector,  my  lad,  and 
take  a dram  after  your  long  walk ; there  is  plenty 
of  hard  work  before  you  this  evening;  for  John- 
nie has  broken  his  fiddle ; and  the  lasses  have 
not  been  asked  to  stand  up  to  a reel  for  many  a 
day.”  And  then  he  paused,  and  said:  “And 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


8i 


how  is  Flora  Campbell,  Hector?  Have  you  any 
news  of  her?  ” 

“No,”  said  the  forester,  in  something  of  an 
undertone,  and  his  face  looked  troubled.  “ I 
have  had  no  letter  for  a while  back ; and  I do 
not  know  what  it  means.  Her  sister  that  lives 
in  Greenock  was  taken  ill ; and  Flora  said  she 
must  go  down  from  Oban  to  see  her;  and  that  is 
the  last  I have  heard.  If  I knew  her  sister’s  ad- 
dress in  Greenock,  I would  write  and  ask  Flora 
why  there  was  no  letter  for  so  long ; but  if  you 
send  a letter  to  one  called  Mary  Campbell  in  such 
a big  place  as  Greenock,  what  use  is  it?  ” 

“ But  no  news  is  good  news,  Hector,”  said  Mr. 
Murray,  cheerfully.  And  therewith  he  led  the 
way  through  a stone  corridor  into  the  great 
kitchen,  where  a considerable  assemblage  of 
lads  and  lasses  were  already  engaged  in  noisy 
merriment  and  pastime. 

The  arrival  of  the  tall  forester  and  his  pipes 
was  hailed  with  general  satisfaction ; but  there 
was  no  call  as  yet  for  the  inspiriting  music ; in 
fact,  this  big  kitchen  was  given  over  to  the 
games  of  the  children  and  the  younger  boys  and 
girls,  a barn  having  been  prepared  for  supper, 
and  for  the  celebration  of  occult  Hallowe’en  rites 
when  the  time  came  for  their  elders  to  take  part 
in  the  festivities.  At  present  there  was  a large 
tub  filled  with  water  placed  in  the  middle  of  the 

4* 


82 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


floor;  and  there  were  apples  in  it;  and  the 
youngsters,  with  their  hands  behind  their  backs, 
were  trying  to  snatch  out  an  apple  with  their 
teeth.  There  was  many  a sousing  of  heads,  of 
course — an  excellent  trial  of  temper ; while  some- 
times a bolder  wight  than  usual  would  pursue  his 
prize  to  the  bottom,  and  try  to  fasten  upon  it 
there;  or  some  shy  young  damsel  would  cun- 
ningly shove  the  apple  over  to  the  side  of  the 
tub,  and  succeed  by  mother-wit  where  masculine 
courage  had  failed.  Then  from  the  roof,  sus- 
pended by  a cord,  hung  a horizontal  piece  of 
wood,  at  one  end  of  which  was  an  apple,  at  the 
other  a lighted  tallow  candle ; and  when  the  cord 
had  been  twisted  up  and  then  set  free  again, 
causing  the  transverse  piece  of  wood  to  whirl 
round,  the  competitor  was  invited  to  snatch  with 
his  mouth  at  the  apple,  failing  to  do  which  se- 
cured him  a rap  on  the  cheek  from  the  guttering 
candle.  There  were  all  sorts  of  similar  diver- 
sions going  forward  (the  origin  and  symbolism 
of  them  little  dreamt  of  by  these  light-hearted 
lads  and  lasses)  when  little  Isabel  Murray  came 
up  to  the  big,  handsome,  good-natured-looking 
forester  from  Glengorm. 

“Will  you  burn  a nut  with  me,  Hector?  ” she 
said,  kindly. 

“ Indeed  I will,  Isabel,  if  you  will  take  me  for 
your  sweetheart,”  said  he,  in  reply;  “and  now 


WILL  SEARCH  MY  POCKETS 


a Hallowe’en  wraith  83 

we  will  go  to  the  fire,  and  see  whether  we  are  to 
be  at  peace  and  friendship  all  our  lives.  ” 

They  went  to  the  hearth ; they  put  the  two 
nuts  among  the  blazing  peats ; and  awaited  the 
response  of  the  oracle.  Could  any  augury  have 
been  more  auspicious?  The  two  nuts  lay  to- 
gether, burning  steadily  and  quickly — a soft  love- 
flame — no  angry  sputtering,  no  sudden  explosion 
and  separation. 

“Now  do  you  see  that,  lamb  of  my  heart?  ” 
said  the  tall  forester,  using  a familiar  Gaelic 
phrase. 

And  no  doubt  the  little  lass  was  very  highly 
pleased.  However,  at  this  moment  up  came 
Mrs.  Murray  with  the  announcement  that  the 
children  might  continue  at  their  games  some 
time  longer,  but  that  the  grown-up  folk  were 
wanted  in  the  barn,  where  supper  was  awaiting 
them. 

It  was  a joyous  scene.  The  huge  peat  fire 
was  blazing  brightly ; the  improvised  chandelier 
was  studded  with  candles ; there  were  a couple 
of  lamps  on  the  long  table,  which  was  otherwise 
most  sumptuously  furnished.  And  when  Hector 
MacIntyre,  in  his  capacity  of  piper,  had  played 
the  people  in  to  the  stirring  strains  of  “The 
Marchioness  of  Tweeddale’s  Delight,  ” he  put  the 
pipes  aside,  and  went  and  took  the  seat  that  had 
been  reserved  for  him  by  the  side  of  the  fair- 


84 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


haired  Nelly,  who  was  very  smartly  dressed  for 
this  great  occasion,  as  befitted  the  reigning 
beauty  of  the  neighborhood. 

'‘You’ll  be  sorry  that  Flora  is  not  here  to- 
night,” said  the  fair-haired  damsel,  rather  sau- 
cily, to  her  brown-bearded  companion ; “ and  no 
one  to  take  her  place.  I suppose  there  was  no 
one  in  Sutherland  good  enough  for  you,  Hector, 
that  you  must  take  up  with  a lass  from  Islay. 
And  there  is  little  need  for  you  to  dip  your 
sleeve  in  the  burn  and  hang  it  up  to  dry  when 
you  go  to  bed,  so  that  the  fire  may  show  you 
your  sweetheart,  for  well  you  know  already  who 
that  is.  Well,  well,  you  will  have  no  heart  for 
the  merrymaking  to-night ; for  a lad  that  has  his 
sweetheart  away  in  the  south  has  no  heart  for 
anything.” 

“You’ll  just  mind  this,  Nelly,”  said  the  for- 
ester, “not  to  carry  your  merrymaking  too  far 
this  night.  Alastair  Ross,”  he  continued,  glanc- 
ing down  the  table  toward  a huge,  rough,  red- 
bearded  drover  who  was  seated  there,  “is  not 
the  man  to  be  made  a fool  of ; and  if  that  young 
fellow  Semple  does  not  take  heed,  he  will  find 
himself  gripped  by  the  waist  some  fine  dark 
evening  and  flung  into  Loch  Naver.” 

“Oh,  you  are  like  all  the  rest,  Hector!”  said 
the  coquettish  Nelly,  with  some  impatience. 
“ Every  one  of  you  is  jealous  of  Johnnie  Semple, 


a Hallowe’en  wraith  85 

because  he  is  neatly  dressed  and  has  good  man- 
ners and  is  civil  spoken ” 

“What  is  he  doing  here  at  all?  ” said  Hector, 
with  a frown.  “ Is  it  a fine  thing  to  see  a young 
man  idling  about  a place  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  just  because  his  uncle  is  the  landlord? 
If  he  has  learned  his  fine  manners  in  the  towns, 
why  does  he  not  earn  his  living  in  the  towns  ? 
He  is  no  use  here.” 

“Oh,  no,”  said  Nelly,  with  a toss  of  her  head; 
“ perhaps  he  is  not  much  use  on  the  hill ; perhaps 
he  could  not  set  traps  and  shoot  hawks.  But  he 
knows  all  the  new  songs  from  the  theatres,  and  he 
can  dance  more  steps  than  any  one  in  Sutherland.  ” 
“Well,  this  is  what  I am  telling  you,  Nelly,” 
her  companion  said,  with  some  firmness.  “ I do 
not  know  what  there  is  between  you  and  Alas- 
tair  Ross.  If  there  is  anything,  as  people  say, 
then  do  not  make  him  an  angry  man.  Let  Sem- 
ple alone.  An  honest  lass  should  beware  of  a 
town  dandy  like  that.” 

Here  this  private  little  conversation  was  inter- 
rupted by  Mr.  Murray,  who  rose  at  the  head  of 
the  table  and  called  upon  the  company  to  fill 
their  glasses.  He  wished  to  drink  with  them, 
and  they  did  not  seem  loth.  When  Hector  and 
his  pretty  companion  found  opportunity  to  re- 
sume their  talk,  he  discovered  that  Nelly  was  in 
quite  a different  mood. 


86 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


“Well,  now,  it  is  a good  thing,  Hector,  that 
every  one  knows  that  you  and  Flora  are  to  be 
married ; for  I can  talk  to  you  without  Alastair 
getting  red  in  the  face  with  rage.  And  when  we 
go  out  to  pull  the  cabbage -stalks,  will  you  go 
with  me?  I know  the  way  into  the  garden  bet- 
ter than  you;  and  we  can  both  go  blindfold  if 
you  will  take  my  hand.” 

“ But  what  need  is  there  for  you  to  pull  a cab- 
bage-stalk, lass?”  said  he.  “Do  you  not  know 
already  what  like  your  husband  is  to  be?  ” 

Again  the  pretty  Nelly  tossed  her  head. 
“ Who  can  tell  what  is  to  happen  in  the  world?  ” 
“ And  maybe  you  would  rather  not  pull  a stalk 
that  was  tall  and  straight  and  strong — that  would 
mean  Alastair?”  said  her  companion,  glancing 
at  her  suspiciously.  “ Maybe  you  would  rather 
find  you  had  got  hold  of  a withered  old  stump 
with  a lot  of  earth  at  the  root — a decrepit  old 
man  with  plenty  of  money  in  the  bank?  Or 
maybe  you  are  wishing  for  one  that  is  slim  and 
supple  and  not  so  tall — for  one  that  might  mean 
Johnnie  Semple?  ” 

“ I am  wishing  to  know  who  the  man  is  to  be, 
and  that  is  all,”  said  Nelly,  with  some  affectation 
of  being  offended.  “ And  what  harm  can  there 
be  in  doing  what  every  one  else  is  doing?  ” 
However,  not  all  Nelly’s  blandishments  and 
petulant  coquetries  could  induce  Hector  Mac- 


a Hallowe'en  wraith 


87 


Intyre  to  take  part  in  this  appeal  to  the  divi- 
nation of  the  kale-yard ; for  when,  after  supper, 
the  lads  and  lasses  went  away  blindfold  to  pull 
the  “ custock  ” that  was  to  reveal  to  them  the  fig- 
ure and  circumstances  of  their  future  spouse,  the 
big  forester  remained  to  have  a quiet  smoke 
with  the  married  keepers  and  shepherds,  who 
had  no  interest  in  such  matters.  It  was  noticed 
that  he  was  unusually  grave — he  who  was  ordi- 
narily one  of  the  lightest  of  the  light-hearted. 
Naturally  they  put  it  down  to  the  fact  that  among 
all  the  merrymaking  and  sweethearting  and  spy- 
ing into  the  future  of  the  younger  people  he 
alone  had  no  companion,  or  rather  not  the  com- 
panion whom  he  would  have  wished  to  have; 
for  Flora,  the  young  girl  whom  he  was  to  marry, 
had  left  Inver-Mudal  for  the  south  in  the  preced- 
ing autumn.  And  when  they  had  asked  if  Flora 
was  quite  well,  and  when  he  had  answered  “ Oh, 
yes,”  there  was  nothing  further  to  be  said. 


II 

Now  on  All-Hallows  Eve  there  is  one  form  of 
incantation  which  is  known  to  be  extremely,  nay, 
terribly  potent,  when  all  others  have  failed.  You 


88 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


go  out  by  yourself,  taking  a handful  of  hemp- 
seed  with  you.  You  get  to  a secluded  place,  and 
begin  to  scatter  the  seed  as  you  walk  along  the 
road.  You  say,  “ Hemp-seed,  I sow  thee;  hemp- 
seed  I sow  thee ; he  who  is  to  be  my  true  love, 
appear  now  and  show  thee.”  And  if  you  look 
furtively  over  your  shoulder  you  will  behold  the 
desired  apparition  following  you. 

When  Nelly  came  back  from  consulting  the 
oracle  of  the  kale-yard,  it  appeared  that  she  had 
received  what  oracles  generally  vouchsafe — a 
doubtful  answer. 

“What  kind  of  custock  did  you  pull,  Nelly?  ” 
Hector  asked  of  her. 

“Well,”  said  she,  “it  is  not  much  one  way  or 
the  other.  No,  I cannot  tell  anything  by  it. 
But  I am  going  out  now  to  sow  the  hemp-seed, 
Hector;  and  I know  I shall  be  terribly  fright- 
ened— I shall  be  far  too  frightened  to  look  over 
my  shoulder ; and  this  is  what  I want  you  to  do 
for  me : you  will  stop  at  the  door  of  the  inn  and 
hide  yourself ; and  I will  go  up  the  road  and  sow 
the  hemp-seed ; and  if  anything  appears,  you  will 
see  it.  Will  you  do  that,  Hector?  It  is  a clear 
night;  you  will  be  sure  to  see  it  if  there  is  any- 
thing.” 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  mood  for  taking 
part  in  these  superstitious  observances;  but  he 
was  good-natured,  and  eventually  followed  her 


a Hallowe’en  wraith  89 

to  the  door.  The  little  walled  garden  in  front  of 
the  Inver-Mudal  inn  is  shaped  like  a horseshoe, 
the  two  ends  of  the  semicircle  touching  the  main 
highway  at  some  distance  apart.  He  saw  Nelly 
go  up  toward  the  main  road,  and  looked  after 
her  absently  and  without  interest.  Nay,  he  was 
so  little  thinking  of  his  promised  watch  that,  as 
she  was  some  time  over  the  sowing  of  the  hemp- 
seed,  he  left  the  shadow  of  the  inn  door,  and 
strolled  away  up  to  the  main  road  by  the  other 
fork  of  the  semicircular  drive.  It  was  a beauti- 
ful clear  moonlight  night ; his  thoughts  were  far 
away  from  these  Hallowe’en  diversions;  he  was 
recalling  other  evenings  long  ago,  when  Cle- 
brig,  as  now,  seemed  joining  earth  and  heaven, 
and  when  there  was  no  sound  but  the  murmur- 
ing of  the  burns  through  the  trackless  heather. 
The  highway  up  there  was  white  before  him ; on 
the  other  side  was  a plantation  of  young  firs, 
black  as  jet.  Not  even  the  cry  of  a startled  bird 
broke  this  perfect  stillness;  the  wide  world  of 
mountain  and  loch  and  moor  was  plunged  in 
sleep  profound. 

All  at  once  his  pipe,  that  he  happened  to  be 
holding  in  his  hand,  dropped  to  his  feet.  There 
before  him  in  the  white  highway,  and  between 
him  and  the  black  belt  of  firs,  stood  Flora 
Campbell,  regarding  him  with  eyes  that  said 
nothing,  but  only  stared  in  a somewhat  sad  way, 


9o 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


as  it  seemed.  He  was  not  paralyzed  with,  terror 
at  all.  He  had  no  time  to  ask  himself  what  she 
was  doing  there,  or  how  she  had  come  there. 
Flora  Campbell  standing  there  in  the  road,  and 
looking  at  him  in  silence.  But  the  horror  came 
when  suddenly  he  saw  that  the  white  highway 
was  empty.  He  began  to  shake  and  shiver  as  if 
with  extremity  of  cold.  He  did  not  move;  he 
could  not  move.  He  knew  what  had  happened 
to  him  now.  Flora  Campbell’s  wraith  had  ap- 
peared to  him.  And  with  what  message?  The 
steady  gaze  of  her  eyes  had  told  him  nothing. 
If  they  were  anything,  they  were  mournful. 
Perhaps  it  was  a token  of  farewell ; perhaps  it 
was  an  intimation  of  her  death.  Hardly  know- 
ing what  he  did,  and  trembling  in  every  limb, 
he  advanced  a step  or  two,  so  that  he  could  com- 
mand the  whole  length  of  the  highway.  There 
was  no  sign  of  any  living  thing  there.  He  could 
not  recall  how  it  was  she  first  appeared ; he  could 
not  tell  in  what  manner  she  had  gone  away ; he 
only  knew  that  a few  moments  before  Flora  had 
been  regarding  him  with  steady,  plaintive  eyes, 
and  that  now  he  was  alone  with  this  moonlit 
road  and  the  black  plantation,  and  Clebrig  rising 
far  into  the  silent  heavens. 

Then  there  arose  in  his  heart  a wild  resolve 
that,  whatever  this  thing  might  portend,  he 
must  instantly  make  away  for  the  south,  to  seek 


a Hallowe’en  wraith  91 

out  Flora  Campbell  berself.  She  had  something 
to  say  to  him,  surely,  though  those  mournful 
eyes  conveyed  no  intelligible  message.  Nay,  if 
she  were  dead,  if  this  were  but  a mute  farewell, 
must  he  not  know?  Dazed,  bewildered,  filled 
with  terrible  misgivings  of  he  knew  not  what, 
he  slowly  went  back  to  the  inn.  He  had  some 
vague  instinct  that  he  must  ask  Mr.  Murray  for 
the  loan  of  a stick  if  he  were  to  set  out  now  to 
cross  the  leagues  of  wild  and  mountainous  coun- 
try that  lie  between  Inver-Mudal  and  the  sea. 
Mr.  Murray,  as  it  chanced,  was  at  the  door. 

“God’s  sake,  Hector,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?”  he  exclaimed,  in  alarm,  for  there  was  a 
strange  look  in  the  man’s  face. 

“I  have  seen  something  this  night,”  was  the 
answer,  spoken  slowly  and  in  an  undertone. 

“Nonsense!  nonsense!”  the  innkeeper  said. 
“ The  heads  of  the  young  people  are  filled  with 
foolishness  on  Hallowe’en,  as  every  one  knows; 
but  you — you  are  not  to  be  frightened  by  their 
stories.” 

“It  has  naught  to  do  with  Hallowe’en,”  said 
Hector,  still  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
as  if  seeking  to  recall  something.  “ Do  you 
know  what  I have  seen  this  night?  I have  seen 
the  wraith  of  Flora  Campbell — ay,  as  clear  as 
daylight.” 

“ I will  not  believe  it,  Hector,”  said  Mr.  Mur- 


92 


A HALLOWE  EN  WRAITH 


ray.  “ You  have  been  hearing  all  those  stories 
of  the  witches  and  fairies  on  Hallowe’en  until 
your  own  head  has  been  turned.  Why,  where 
did  you  see  the  wraith?  ” 

“Up  there  in  the  road,  and  as  clear  as  day- 
light, for  that  is  the  truth.  It  was  Flora  her- 
self,” the  tall  forester  made  answer,  not  argu- 
mentatively, but  as  merely  stating  a fact  that  he 
knew. 

“ And  did  she  come  forward  to  you,  or  did  she 
go  away  from  you?”  Mr.  Murray  asked,  curi- 
ously. 

“I — I am  not  sure,”  Hector  said,  after  a little 
hesitation.  “No,  I could  not  say.  Perhaps  I 
was  not  thinking  of  her.  But  all  at  once  I saw 
her  between  me  and  the  plantation,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road;  and  for  a moment  I was  not 
frightened ; I thought  it  was  Flora  herself ; then 
she  was  gone.” 

“For  you  know  what  they  say,  Hector,”  Mr. 
Murray  continued.  “ When  a wraith  appears,  it 
is  to  tell  you  of  a great  danger ; and  if  it  comes 
forward  to  you,  then  the  danger  is  over;  but  if 
it  goes  away  from  you,  the  person  is  dead.” 

“Ay,  ay;  I have  heard  that  too,”  Hector  mur- 
mured, as  if  in  sombre  reverie.  Then  he  looked 
up,  and  said:  “ I am  going  away  to  the  south.” 
“Well,  now,  that  is  unfortunate,  Hector,”  the 
good-natured  innkeeper  said  to  him.  “ For  to- 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


93 


morrow  the  mail  comes  north,  and  you  will  have 
to  wait  till  the  next  day  for  the  mail  going 
south,  to  take  you  in  to  Lairg  to  catch  the 
train.” 

“ I will  not  wait  for  the  mail,”  answered  the 
forester,  who,  indeed,  knew  little  about  travel- 
ling by  railway.  “To-morrow  is  Wednesday: 
it  is  the  day  the  big  steamer  starts  from  Loch 
Inver;  perhaps  I may  be  in  time.” 

“Loch  Inver!”  the  other  exclaimed.  “And 
how  are  you  going  to  get  to  Loch  Inver  from 
here,  Hector?” 

“Across  the  forest,”  was  the  simple  reply. 

“ Across  the  Reay  Forest  and  down  by  Loch 
Assynt?  That  will  be  a fearful  journey  through 
the  night!” 

“I  cannot  rest  here,”  Hector  said.  “You  will 
make  some  excuse  for  me  to  the  lads  and  lasses. 
I will  leave  my  pipes;  Long  Murdoch  will  do 
very  well  with  them.  And  I will  thank  you  to 
lend  me  a stick,  Mr.  Murray,  for  it  will  be  a 
rough  walk  before  I have  done.” 

Mr.  Murray  did  more  than  that;  he  got  his 
wife  to  make  up  a little  packet  of  food,  to  which 
he  added  a flask  of  whiskey ; and  these  he  took 
out  to  the  young  man,  along  with  a shepherd’s 
staff  of  stout  hazel. 

“Good-by,  Hector!”  said  he.  “I  hope  you 
will  find  all  well  in  the  south.” 


94 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


“I  do  not  know  about  that,”  the  forester  an- 
swered, in  an  absent  sort  of  fashion ; “ but  I must 
go  and  see.  There  will  be  no  peace  of  mind  for 
me — there  would  not  be  one  moment’s  peace  for 
me — otherwise.  For  who  knows  what  Flora 
wanted  to  say  to  me?  ” 


III 

It  was  an  arduous  task  he  had  set  before  him ; 
for  nine  men  out  of  ten  it  would  have  been  an 
impossible  one ; but  this  young  forester’s  limbs 
knew  not  what  fatigue  was;  and  in  his  heart 
there  burned  a longing  that  could  not  be  as- 
suaged. Nor  in  ordinary  circumstances  would 
the  loneliness  of  this  night’s  journey  have  mat- 
tered to  him ; but  his  nerves  had  been  unstrung 
by  the  strange  thing  that  had  happened;  and 
now,  as  he  followed  a shepherd’s  track  that  led 
away  into  the  higher  moorlands  south  of  the 
Mudal  River,  he  was  conscious  of  some  mysteri- 
ous influence  surrounding  him  that  was  of  far 
more  immediate  concern  than  the  mere  number 
of  miles — some  forty  or  fifty — he  had  to  accom- 
plish before  noon  of  the  next  day.  These  vast 
solitudes  into  which  he  was  penetrating  were  ap- 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


95 


parently  quite  voiceless  and  lifeless ; and  yet  lie 
felt  as  if  they  knew  of  his  presence,  and  were 
regarding  him.  A white  stone  on  a dark  heather- 
covered  knoll  would  suddenly  look  like  a human 
face ; or  again,  he  would  be  startled  by  the  moon- 
light shining  on  a small  tarn  set  among  the  black 
peat  hags.  There  was  no  moaning  of  wind ; but 
there  was  a distant  murmuring  of  water ; the  rills 
were  whispering  to  each  other  in  the  silence. 
As  for  the  mountains — those  lone  sentinels,  Ben 
Loyal  and  Ben  Hope  and  Ben  Hee — they  also 
appeared  to  be  looking  down  upon  the  desolate 
plain;  but  he  did  not  heed  them,  they  were  too 
far  away ; it  was  the  objects  near  him  that  seemed 
to  know  he  was  here,  and  to  take  sudden  shapes 
as  he  went  by. 

Soon  he  was  without  even  a shepherd’s  track 
to  guide  him ; but  he  knew  the  lay  of  the  land ; 
and  he  held  on  in  a line  that  would  avoid  the 
lochs,  the  deeper  burns,  and  the  steep  heights 
of  Meall-an-amair.  The  moonlight  was  a great 
help ; indeed,  at  this  period  of  his  long  through- 
the -night  tramp  he  was  chiefly  engaged  in  trying 
to  recall  how  it  was  he  first  became  sensible  that 
Flora  Campbell’s  wraith  appeared  before  him. 
Fie  saw  again — surely  he  would  never  forget  to 
his  dying  day  the  most  insignificant  feature  of 
the  scene — the  stone  wall  of  the  garden,  the 
white  road,  the  wire  fence  on  the  other  side,  and 


9<5 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


the  black  plantation  of  spruce  and  pine.  What 
had  he  been  thinking  about?  Not  about  Nelly; 
she  was  some  distance  in  another  direction,  busy 
with  her  charms  and  incantations.  No ; he  could 
not  tell.  The  sudden  apparition  had  startled 
him  out  of  all  memory.  But  what  he  was  most 
anxious  to  convince  himself  was  that  the  phan- 
tom had  come  toward  him,  rather  than  gone 
away  from  him,  ere  it  disappeared,  Mr.  Mur- 
ray’s words  had  sunk  deep,  though  he  himself 
had  been  aware  of  the  familiar  superstition.  But 
now  all  his  endeavors  to  summon  up  an  accurate 
recollection  of  what  had  taken  place  were  of  no 
avail.  He  knew  not  how  he  first  became  con- 
scious that  the  wraith  was  there — Flora  Camp- 
bell herself,  as  it  seemed  to  him — nor  how  it  was 
he  suddenly  found  himself  alone  again.  He  had 
been  terrified  out  of  his  senses ; he  had  no  power 
of  observation  left.  This  phantasm  that  looked 
so  like  a human  being,  that  regarded  him  with 
pathetic  eyes,  that  had  some  mysterious  message 
to  communicate,  and  yet  was  silent,  had  vanished 
as  it  had  appeared,  he  could  not  tell  how. 

The  hours  went  by ; the  moon  was  sinking  to- 
ward the  western  hills.  And  still  he  toiled  on 
through  this  pathless  waste,  sometimes  getting 
into  treacherous  swamps,  again  having  to  ford 
burns  swollen  by  the  recent  rains.  He  was 
soaked  through  to  the  waist ; but  little  he  heeded 


A HALLOWE  EN  WRAITH 


97 


that ; his  thoughts  were  of  the  steamer  that  was 
to  leave  Loch  Inver  the  next  day.  With  the 
moon  going  down,  darkness  was  slowly  resuming 
her  reign,  and  it  became  more  difficult  to  make 
out  the  landmarks ; but,  at  all  events,  the  heav- 
ens remained  clear,  and  he  had  the  guidance  of 
the  stars.  And  still  steadily  and  patiently  and 
manfully  he  held  on,  getting  without  much  seri- 
ous trouble  across  the  streams  that  feed  Loch 
Fhiodaig,  until  eventually  he  struck  the  highway 
running  northward  from  Loch  Shin,  and  knew 
that  so  far,  at  least,  he  was  in  the  right  direction. 

Leaving  the  Corrykinloch  road  again,  he  had 
once  more  to  plunge  into  the  trackless  wilderness 
of  rock  and  swamp  and  moorland ; and  the  fur- 
ther he  went  through  the  black  night  the  less 
familiar  was  he  with  the  country.  But  he  had 
a general  knowledge ; and  what  mattered  half  a 
dozen  miles  one  way  or  the  other,  if  only  the 
dawn  would  show  him  Ben  More  on  his  left,  and 
away  before  him  the  silver-gray  waters  of  Loch 
Assynt?  He  was  less  conscious  now  of  the  sin- 
ister influences  of  these  lonely  solitudes ; his 
nervous  apprehensions  had  to  give  way  before 
his  dogged  resolve  to  get  out  to  the  western 
shore  in  time  to  catch  the  steamer ; all  his  atten- 
tion was  given  to  determining  his  course  by  the 
vague  outlines  of  the  higher  hills.  A wind  had 
arisen,  a cold,  raw  wind  it  was,  but  he  cared 

5 


A HALLOWE'EN  WRAITH 


98 

nothing  for  that,  unless,  indeed,  it  should  bring 
a smurr  of  rain  and  obliterate  the  landmarks  al- 
together. How  anxiously  he  prayed  for  the 
dawn ! If  this  wind  were  to  bring  driving  mists 
of  rain,  blotting  out  both  earth  and  heaven,  and 
limiting  his  vision  to  the  space  of  moorland  im- 
mediately surrounding  him,  where  would  be  his 
guidance  then?  He  could  not  grope  his  way 
along  the  slopes  that  lie  beneath  Loch  nan  Scarir, 
nor  yet  across  the  streams  that  fall  into  Loch 
Fionn.  So  all  the  more  resolutely  he  held  on 
while  as  yet  he  could  make  out  something  of  the 
land,  dark  against  the  tremulous  stars. 

Again  and  again  he  turned  his  head  and 
scanned  the  east,  with  a curious  mingling  of  im- 
patience and  hope  and  longing;  and  at  length,  to 
his  unspeakable  joy,  he  was  able'  to  convince  him- 
self that  the  horizon  there  was  giving  faint  signs 
of  the  coming  dawn.  He  went  forward  with  a 
new  confidence,  with  a lighter  step.  The  horror 
of  these  awful  solitudes  would  disappear  with  the 
declaring  day ; surely,  surely,  when  the  world  had 
grown  white  again,  he  would  behold  before  him, 
not  this  terrible  black  loneliness  of  mountain 
and  mere,  but  the  pleasant  abodes  of  men,  and 
trees,  and  the  western  ocean,  and  the  red-fun- 
nelled steamer  with  its  welcome  smoke.  The 
gray  light  in  the  east  increased.  He  began  to 
make  out  the  features  of  the  ground  near  him ; 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


99 


he  could  tell  a patch  of  heather  from  a deep 
hole;  and  could  choose  his  way.  The  world 
seemed  to  broaden  out.  Everything,  it  is  true, 
was  as  yet  wan  and  spectral  and  ill-defined ; but 
the  silence  was  no  longer  awful ; he  had  no  fur- 
ther fear  of  the  mists  coming  along  to  isolate 
him  in  the  dark.  By  slow  degrees,  under  the 
widening  light  of  the  sky,  the  various  features 
of  this  wild  country  began  to  take  more  definite 
shape.  Down  there  in  the  south  lay  the  mighty 
mass  of  Ben  More.  On  his  right  rose  the  sterile 
altitudes  of  Ben  Uidhe.  And  at  last,  and  quite 
suddenly,  he  came  in  view  of  the  ruffled  silvery 
surface  of  Loch  Assynt,  and  the  cottages  of  Inch- 
nadamph,  and  the  gray  ruins  of  Ardvreck  Castle 
on  the  promontory  jutting  out  into  the  lake.  The 
worst  of  the  sore  fight  with  solitude  and  the  night 
was  over.  He  gained  the  road,  and  his  long 
swinging  stride  now  stood  him  in  good  stead. 
Loch  Assynt  was  soon  left  behind.  He  followed 
the  windings  of  the  river  Inver.  Finally  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  scattered  little  hamlet  fac- 
ing the  western  seas,  with  its  bridge  and  its 
church  and  its  pleasant  woods  and  slopes,  look- 
ing all  so  cheerful  and  home-like ; and  there  also 
was  the  red-funnelled  Clansman  that  was  to  carry 
him  away  to  the  south. 


IOO 


a Hallowe'en  wraith 


IV 

That  long  and  difficult  struggle  to  get  out  to 
the  western  coast  in  time  had  so  far  demanded 
all  his  energy  and  attention;  but  now,  in  en- 
forced idleness,  as  the  heavy  steamer  ploughed 
her  way  across  the  blue  waters  of  the  Minch,  his 
mind  could  go  back  upon  what  had  happened 
the  preceding  night,  and  could  also  look  for- 
ward with  all  sorts  of  dark,  indefinite  forebod- 
ings. He  began  to  recall  his  first  association 
with  Flora  Campbell,  when  she  came  to  Auch- 
naver  Lodge  to  help  the  old  housekeeper  there. 
He  remembered  how  neat  and  trim  she  looked 
when  she  walked  into  Strathie  Free  Church 
of  a Sunday  morning;  and  how  shy  she  was 
when  he  got  to  know  her  well  enough  to  talk  a 
little  with  her  when  they  met,  in  their  native 
tongue.  Their  courtship  and  engagement  had 
the  entire  approval  of  Flora’s  master  and  mis- 
tress ; for  the  old  housekeeper  at  the  lodge  was 
now  past  work ; and  they  proposed  to  install  Hec- 
tor’s wife  in  her  place,  and  give  her  a permanent 
situation.  The  wedding  was  to  be  in  February 
or  March ; in  April  the  young  wife  was  to  move 
into  the  lodge,  to  get  it  ready  for  the  gentlemen 
coming  up  for  the  salmon-fishing.  When  the 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


ioi 


fishing  and  shooting  of  the  year  were  over,  Flora 
could  return  to  her  husband’s  cottage,  and  merely 
look  in  at  the  lodge  from  time  to  time  to  light  a 
fire  or  two  and  keep  the  place  aired.  Mean- 
while, for  this  present  winter,  she  had  taken  a 
situation  in  Oban  (she  was  a West  Highland 
girl),  and  had  remained  there  until  summoned 
away  to  Greenock  by  the  serious  illness  of  her 
sister.  Such  was  the  situation  ; but  who  could 
tell  now  what  was  to  become  of  all  those  fair 
prospects  and  plans?  Was  it  to  bid  a last  fare- 
well to  them  and  to  him  that  the  young  Highland 
girl  had  appeared — saying  good-by  with  such 
mournful  eyes?  The  small  parlor  in  his  cottage 
— was  she  never  to  see  the  little  adornments  he 
had  placed  there,  all  for  her  sake?  Well,  then, 
if  what  he  feared  had  come  true,  no  other  wo- 
man should  enter  and  take  possession.  There 
were  dreams  of  Canada,  of  Cape  Colony,  of  Aus- 
tralia in  his  brain  as  he  sat  there  with  bent  brow 
and  heavy  heart,  taking  hardly  any  heed  of  the 
new  shores  they  were  now  nearing. 

This  anguish  of  brooding  became  at  length  in- 
supportable; in  despair  he  went  to  the  stevedore, 
and  said  he  would  be  glad  to  lend  a hand  with 
the  cargo  as  soon  as  the  steamer  was  alongside 
the  quay  in  Stornoway  Harbor.  And  right  hard 
he  worked,  too,  hour  after  hour,  feeding  the 
steam  crane  that  was  swinging  crates  and  boxes 


102 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


over  and  down  into  the  hold.  The  time  passed 
more  easily  in  this  fashion.  His  chum  was  a 
good-natured  young  fellow  who  seemed  rather 
proud  of  his  voice ; at  times  he  sang  snatches  of 
Gaelic  songs — “ Mairi  bhinn  mheall  shuileach” 
(Mary  of  the  bewitching  eyes),  or  “C’aite’n 
caidil  an  ribhinn?”  (Where  sleepest  thou,  dear 
maiden  ?) . They  were  familiar  songs ; but  there 
was  one  still  more  familiar  that  woke  strange 
echoes  in  his  heart;  for  Flora  Campbell  was  a 
west-country  girl,  and  of  course  her  favorite  was 
the  well-known  “ Fear  a bhata:  ” 

“ I climb  the  mountains  and  scan  the  ocean 
For  thee,  my  boatman,  with  fond  devotion, 

When  shall  I see  thee? — to-day? — to-morrow? 

Oh,  do  not  leave  me  in  lonely  sorrow ! 

O my  boatman,  na  horo  ailya , 

O my  boatman,  na  horo  ailya , 

O my  boatman,  na  horo  ailya , 

A hundred  farewells  to  you,  wherever  you  may  be 
going.” 

That  is  how  it  begins  in  the  English ; but  it  was 
the  Gaelic  phrases  that  haunted  his  brain,  and 
brought  him  remembrance  of  Flora’s  crooning 
voice,  and  of  a certain  autumn  evening  when  he 
and  she  and  some  others  went  all  the  way  down 
Loch  Naver  to  Inver-Mudal,  Flora  and  he  sitting 
together  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  all  of  them 
singing  the  “ Fear  a bhata.” 


FLORA  AND  HE  SITTING  TOGETHER  IN  THE  STERN  OF  THE  BOAT,  AND  ALL  OF  THEM  SINGING  THE 

‘ FEAR  A BHATA  ’ ” 


a Hallowe’en  wraith  103 

The  Clansman  left  Stornoway  that  same  night, 
groaning  and  thundering  through  the  darkness 
on  her  way  to  Skye.  Hector  did  not  go  below 
into  the  fore-cabin.  He  remained  on  deck, 
watching  the  solitary  ray  of  some  distant  light- 
house, or  perhaps  turning  his  gaze  upon  the 
great  throbbing  vault  overhead  where  Cassiopeia 
sat,  throned  upon  her  silver  chair.  More  than 
once  an  aerolite  shot  swiftly  across  the  clear 
heavens,  leaving  a faint  radiance  for  a second  or 
so  in  its  wake ; but  he  took  no  heed  of  these  por- 
tents now.  In  other  circumstances  they  might 
mean  something;  but  now  a more  direct  sum- 
mons had  come  to  him  from  the  unknown  world ; 
the  message  had  been  delivered,  though  he  had 
been  unable  to  understand  it ; and  he  knew  that 
what  was  to  happen  had  now  happened  in  that 
far  town  of  Greenock.  And  as  the  slow  hours 
went  by,  his  impatience  and  longing  increased 
almost  to  despair.  The  dark  loom  of  land  in 
the  south  appeared  to  come  no  nearer.  The 
monotonous  throbbing  of  the  screw  seemed  as  if 
it  were  to  go  on  forever.  And  as  yet  there  was 
no  sign  of  the  dawn. 

But  the  new  day,  which  promised  to  be  quite 
insupportable  in  its  tedium  and  in  its  fears,  in 
reality  brought  him  some  distraction,  and  that 
was  welcome  enough.  At  Portree  there  came  on 
board  a middle-aged  man  of  rather  mean  aspect, 


104 


a Hallowe'en  wraith 


with  broken  nose,  long  upper  lip,  and  curiously 
set  small  gray  eyes.  He  carried  a big  bag 
which  apparently  held  all  his  belongings,  and 
that  he  threw  on  to  the  luggage  on  the  forward 
deck. 

“ Where’s  this  going  to?  ” called  the  stevedore. 

“ Sure  ’tis  bound  for  the  same  place  as  mesilf,” 
said  the  new-comer,  facetiously;  “and  that’s 
Philadelphia,  begob ! ” 

“We  don’t  call  there,”  retorted  the  stevedore, 
dryly;  “and  you’d  better  stick  to  your  bundle  if 
you  want  to  see  it  at  Greenock.” 

And  very  soon  it  became  apparent  that  the 
advent  of  this  excited  and  voluble  Irishman  had 
brought  new  life  into  the  steerage  portion  of  the 
ship.  He  had  a glass  or  two  of  whiskey.  He 
talked  to  everybody  within  hearing  about  him- 
self, his  plans,  his  former  experiences  of  the 
United  States;  and  when  gravelled  for  lack  of 
matter,  he  would  fall  back  on  one  invariable  re- 
frain : “ Aw,  begob ! the  Americans  are  the 
bhoys!”  And  in  especial  were  his  confidences 
bestowed  on  Hector  MacIntyre,  the  shy  and  re- 
served Highlander  listening  passively  and  with- 
out protest  to  Paddy’s  wild  asseverations. 

“Aw,  the  Americans  are  the  divils,  and  no 
mistake ! ” he  exclaimed.  “ But  let  me  tell  you 
this,  sorr,  that  there’s  one  that’s  cliverer  than 
them,  and  that’s  the  Irish  bhoy,  begob!  Sure 


A HALLOWE’EN  WRAITH 


io5 

they  talk  about  the  German  vote — aw,  bather- 
shin!  ’Tis  the  Irish  vote,  sorr,  that’s  the  mas- 
ther;  and  we’ve  got  the  newspapers.  And 
where  would  the  Republicans  or  the  Dimocrats 
be  widout  us? — tell  me  that  av  ye  plaze!  In 

this ould  counthry  the  Irishman  is  a slave ; in 

Americay  he’s  the  masther;  and  every  mother’s 
son  of  them  knows  it!  Aw,  begob,  sorr,  that’s 

the  place  for  a man ! This ould  counthry 

isn’t  fit  for  a pig  to  live  in!  Americay’s  the 
place;  you  may  bet  your  life  on  it,  sorr!  ” 

And  suddenly  it  occurred  to  Hector  that  he 
might  gain  some  information,  even  from  this 
blathering  fool.  His  thoughts  had  been  running 
much  on  emigration  during  those  lonely  hours 
he  had  passed.  If  what  he  dreaded  had  really 
taken  place,  he  would  return  no  more  to  the  lone 
moorlands  and  hills  and  lakes  of  Sutherlandshire. 
He  would  put  the  wide  Atlantic  between  himself 
and  certain  memories.  For  him  it  would  be 
“ Soraidh  slan  le  tir  mo  ghraidh” — a long  fare- 
well to  Fiunary ! 

But  at  present  the  Irishman  would  not  be 
questioned ; the  outflowing  of  his  eloquence  was 
not  to  be  stopped.  He  was  now  dealing  with 
the  various  classes  and  the  various  institutions  of 
Great  Britain,  on  each  of  which  he  bestowed  the 
same  epithet — that  of  “bloody.”  The  Govern- 
ment, the  newspaper  editors,  the  House  of  Lords, 


io6 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


the  House  of  Commons,  the  clergy,  the  judges, 
the  employers  of  labor,  all  were  of  the  same 
ensanguined  hue ; and  all  were  equally  doomed 
to  perdition,  as  soon  as  Ireland  had  taken  up 
her  proper  and  inevitable  position  in  America. 
Moreover,  the  tall  and  silent  Highlander,  as  he 
sat  and  gazed  upon  this  frothing  creature  as  if 
he  were  some  strange  phenomenon,  some  incom- 
prehensible freak  of  nature,  could  not  but  see 
that  the  man  was  perfectly  in  earnest. 

“Look  what  they  did  to  John  Mitch  el!  Look 
at  that,  now!  John  Mitchel!  ” 

Hector  had,  unfortunately,  never  heard  of 
John  Mitchel,  so  he  could  not  say  anything. 

“Dying  by  the  road-side! — John  Mitchel — to 
be  left  to  die  by  the  road-side ! Think  of  that, 
now!  What  d’ye  say  to  that,  now?  John 
Mitchel  being  left  to  die  by  the  road-side ! ” 

There  were  sudden  tears  in  the  deep-sunken 
gray  eyes ; and  the  Irishman  made  no  conceal- 
ment as  he  wiped  them  away  with  his  red  cotton 
handkerchief. 

“Well,  I’m  very  sorry,”  Hector  MacIntyre  re- 
plied, in  answer  to  this  appeal,  “whoever  he 
was.  But  what  could  they  have  done  for  the 
poor  man?  ” 

“They  could  have  given  him  a place,”  the 
other  retorted,  with  a sudden  blaze  of  anger. 
“ All  that  John  Mitchel  wanted  was  a place.  But 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


107 


the  ” (ensanguined)  “ Government,  would  they  do 
it?  No,  sorr!  They  let  him  die  by  the  road- 
side!— John  Mitchel — to  die  by  the  road-side!  ” 

“ Well,  I am  thinking,”  said  the  forester  slowly 
(as  was  his  way  when  he  had  to  talk  in  English) , 
“ that  if  the  Government  wass  to  give  places  to 
ahl  them  that  would  like  a place,  why,  the  whole 
country  would  be  in  the  public  service,  and  there 
would  be  no  one  left  to  till  the  land.  And  do 
they  give  you  a place  when  you  go  to  America?  ” 
“Aw,  begob,  sorr,”  said  the  Irishman,  with  a 
shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye,  “we  get  our  share!  ” 
Hector  could  not  make  out  whether  his  new 
acquaintance  had  been  to  Portree  to  say  good-by 
to  some  friends  before  he  crossed  the  Atlantic, 
or  whether  he  had  been  engaged  in  the  crofter 
agitation  which  was  then  attracting  attention  in 
Skye.  On  this  latter  subject  Paddy  discoursed 
with  a vehement  volubility  and  a gay  and  auda- 
cious ignorance ; but  here  Hector  was  on  his  own 
ground,  and  had  to  interfere. 

“ I am  thinking  you  will  not  be  knowing  much 
about  it,”  he  observed,  with  a calm  frankness. 
“ The  great  Highland  clearances,  they  were  not 
made  for  deer  at  ahl,  they  were  not  made  for 
sportsmen  at  ahl,  they  were  made  for  sheep, 
as  many  a landlord  knows  to  his  cost  this 
day,  when  he  has  the  sheep  farms  on  his  lands 
and  cannot  get  them  let.  And  the  deer  forests, 


io8 


A HALLOWE  EN  WRAITH 


they  are  the  worst  land  in  a country  where  the 
best  land  is  poor ; and  if  they  were  to  be  cut  up 
into  crofts  to-morrow,  there  is  not  one  crofter  in 
twenty  would  be  able  to  earn  his  living,  even  if 
he  was  to  get  the  croft  for  no  rent  at  ahl.  Oh, 
yes,  I am  as  sorry  as  any  one  for  the  poor  people 
when  they  increase  in  their  families  on  such  poor 
land ; but  what  would  be  the  use  of  giving  them 
more  peat  hags  and  rocks?  Can  a man  live 
where  neither  deer  nor  sheep  nor  black  cattle 
can  live ; and  even  the  deer  come  down  in  the 
winter  and  go  wandering  for  miles  in  search  of 
a blade  of  bent-grass?  ” 

However,  the  Irishman  would  not  accept  these 
representations  in  any  wise.  He  suspected  this 
grave,  brown-bearded  Highlander  of  being  an 
accomplice  and  hireling  of  the  (ensanguined) 
landlords;  and  he  might  have  gone  on  to  de- 
nounce him,  or  even  to  provoke  an  appeal  to 
fisticuffs  (which  would  have  been  manifestly 
imprudent)  had  it  not  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  they  might  go  down  below  and  have  a glass 
of  whiskey  together.  Hector  saw  him  disappear 
into  the  fore-cabin  by  himself,  and  was  perhaps 
glad  to  be  left  alone. 

Steadily  the  great  steamer  clove  her  way  on- 
ward, by  the  islands  of  Raasay  and  Scalpa, 
through  the  narrows  of  Kyle  Akin  and  Kyle 
Rhea,  past  the  light-house  and  opening  into  Isle 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


109 

Ornsay,  and  down  toward  the  wooded  shores  of 
Armadale.  The  day  was  fair  and  still;  the  sea 
was  of  an  almost  summer-like  blue,  with  long 
swathes  of  silver  calm;  the  sun  shone  on  the 
lower  green  slopes  that  seemed  so  strangely 
voiceless,  and  on  the  higher  peaks  and  shoulders 
of  the  hills,  where  every  corrie  and  watercourse 
was  a thread  of  azure  among  the  ethereal  rose- 
grays  of  the  far-reaching  summits.  Even  the 
wild  Ardnamurchan  (“  The  Headland  of  the 
Great  Waves  ”)  had  not  a flake  of  cloud  clinging 
to  its  beetled  cliffs;  and  the  long  smooth  roll 
that  came  in  from  the  outer  ocean  was  almost 
imperceptible.  Toward  evening  the  Clansman 
sailed  into  Oban  Bay.  The  world  seemed  all  on 
fire,  so  far  as  sea  and  sky  were  concerned ; but 
Kerrera  lay  in  shadow,  a cold  and  livid  green  ; 
while  between  the  crimson  water  and  the  crimson 
heavens  stood  the  distant  mountains  of  Mull; 
and  they  had  grown  to  be  of  a pale,  clear,  trans- 
parent rose-purple,  so  that  they  seemed  a mere 
film  thinner  than  any  isinglass. 


no 


A HALLOWE  EN  WRAITH 


V 

There  was  abundance  of  time  for  him  to  go 
ashore  and  make  inquiries ; but  nothing  had  been 
heard  of  Flora  Campbell  since  she  had  left. 
However,  he  managed  to  get  the  Greenock  ad- 
dress of  her  sister,  Mary  Campbell,  and  with 
that  in  his  possession  he  returned  on  board. 
Thereafter  the  monotonous  voyage  was  resumed 
— away  down  by  the  long  peninsula  of  Cantyre 
and  round  the  Mull,  up  again  through  the  estuary 
of  the  Clyde,  until,  at  four  o’clock  on  Friday 
afternoon,  the  Clansman  drew  in  to  Greenock 
quay;  and  Hector  MacIntyre  knew  that  within 
a few  minutes  he  would  learn  what  fate  had  in 
store  for  him,  for  good  or  irretrievable  ill. 

He  found  his  way  to  the  address  that  had  been 
given  him — a temperance  hotel  at  which  Mary 
Campbell  was  head  laundry-maid.  But  Mary 
Campbell  was  no  longer  there.  She  had  been 
removed  when  she  was  taken  ill;  and  as  she 
would  not  go  into  a hospital,  according  to  a preju- 
dice familiar  among  many  of  her  class,  lodgings 
had  been  found  for  her.  Thither  Hector  went 
forthwith,  into  a slummy  by-street,  where,  after 
many  inquiries,  he  found  the  “land”  and  the 
“ close”  that  he  sought.  He  ascended  the  grimy 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


hi 


and  dusky  stone  stairs.  When  he  had  nearly 
reached  the  top  floor  he  was  met  by  a short,  stout, 
elderly  man,  who  had  just  shut  a door  behind  him. 

“ Is  there  one  Mary  Campbell  luvvin’  here?  ” he 
made  bold  to  ask  in  English. 

“Ay,  that  there  is,”  said  the  stranger,  fixing 
keen  eyes  on  him.  “ Are  you  come  for  news  of 
her?  I am  the  doctor.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  Hector  said;  but  he  could  say  no 
more;  his  heart  was  beating  like  to  choke  him. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  doctor’s  face. 

“Ye’ll  be  one  of  her  Highland  cousins,  eh? 
“Ye  dinna  look  like  a town -bred  lad,”  said  the 
brusque  and  burly  doctor,  with  a sort  of  facetious 
good-humor.  “Well,  well,  Mary  is  getting  on 
right  enough.  Ye  might  as  well  go  in  and  cheer 
her  up  a bit.  The  twa  lasses  dinna  seem  to  have 
many  freens.” 

“ But — but — Flora?  ” said  the  forester,  with  his 
hungry,  haggard  eyes  still  watching  every  ex- 
pression of  the  doctor’s  face. 

“The  other  one?  Indeed,  she  has  had  the 
fever  worse  than  her  sister.  I wasna  sure  one 
night  but  that  she  would  go ” 

MacIntyre  seemed  to  hear  no  more.  Flora 
was  alive — was  within  a few  yards  of  him.  He 
stood  there  quite  dazed.  His  eyes  were  averted; 
he  was  breathing  heavily.  The  doctor  looked  at 
him  for  a moment  or  two. 


I 12 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


“ Maybe  it’s  the  sister  you’re  anxious  about?  ” 
said  he,  bluntly.  “Weel,  she  is  no  out  o’  the 
wood  yet,  but  she  has  a fair  chance.  What, 
man,  what’s  the  matter  wi’  ye?  It’s  no  such  ill 
news ” 

“No,  no;  it’s  very  good  news,”  Hector  said, 
in  an  undertone,  as  if  to  himself.  “ I wass — 
fearing  something.  Can  I see  the  lass?  I wass 
not  hearing  from  her  for  a while ” 

But  he  could  not  explain  what  had  brought 
him  hither.  He  instinctively  knew  that  this 
south  countryman  would  laugh  at  his  Highland 
superstition,  would  say  that  his  head  had  been 
stuffed  full  of  Hallowe’en  nonsense,  or  that  at 
most  what  he  had  imagined  he  had  seen  and  the 
fact  that  Flora  Campbell  had  fallen  seriously  ill 
formed  but  a mere  coincidence. 

“Oh,  yes,  you  can  see  her,”  the  doctor  said, 
with  rough  good-nature.  “But  I’ll  just  go  in 
beforehand  to  gie  her  a bit  warning.  You  can 
talk  to  her  sister  for  a minute  or  two.  She  is 
sitting  up  noo,  and  soon  she’ll  have  to  begin  and 
nurse  her  sister,  as  her  sister  did  her  until  she 
took  the  fever.  Come  away,  lad — what’s  your 
name,  did  ye  say?  ” 

“Hector  MacIntyre.  Flora  will  know  very 
well  where  I am  from.” 

The  doctor  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was 
presently  opened  by  a young  girl ; and  while  he 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


JI3 

left  Hector  to  talk  to  the  elder  sister,  who  was 
lying  propped  up  on  a rude  couch  in  a rather 
shabby  little  apartment,  he  himself  went  into  an 
inner  room.  When  he  came  out  he  again  looked 
at  Hector  curiously. 

“ Now  I understand  why  you  were  so  anxious,” 
said  he,  with  a familiar  smile.  “ But  how  came 
ye  to  hear  she  was  ill?  She  says  she  did  not 
want  ye  to  ken  anything  about  it  until  she  was 
on  the  high-road  to  getting  better.” 

Hector  did  not  answer  him.  He  only  looked 
toward  the  door  that  had  been  partially  left  open. 

“Go  in,  then,”  said  the  doctor;  “and  dinna 
stay  ower  lang,  my  lad,  for  she  has  little  strength 
to  waste  in  talking  as  yet.” 

Timidly,  like  a school-boy,  this  big  strong  man 
entered  the  sick-room ; and  it  was  gently  and  on 
tiptoe  (lest  his  heavily  nailed  boots  should  make 
any  noise)  that  he  went  forward  to  the  bedside. 
Flora  lay  there  pale  and  emaciated;  but  there 
was  a smile  of  surprise  and  welcome  in  the  dark 
blue  Highland  eyes;  and  she  tried  to  lift  her 
wasted  hand  to  meet  his.  What  they  had  to 
say  to  each  other  was  said  in  the  Gaelic  tongue. 

“ It  is  sorry  I am  to  see  you  like  this,”  said  he, 
sitting  down,  and  keeping  her  hand  in  his  own. 
“ But  the  doctor  says  you  are  now  in  a fair  way 
to  get  better;  and  it  is  not  from  this  town  I am 
going  until  I take  you  with  me,  Flora,  girl  of  my 


a Hallowe’en  wraith 


114 

heart.  The  Sutherland  air  will  be  better  for  you 
than  the  Greenock  air.  And  your  sister  Mary 
will  come  with  you  for  a while ; and  both  of  you 
will  take  my  little  cottage;  and  Mrs.  Matheson 
will  give  me  a bed  at  Auchnaver  Lodge.  I am 
sure  Mr.  Lennox  would  not  object  to  that.” 

“ But,  Hector,  how  did  you  know  that  I was 
ill?  ” the  sick  girl  said,  and  her  eyes  did  not  leave 
his  eyes  for  a moment.  “ I was  not  wishing  you 
to  know  I was  ill — to  give  you  trouble — until  I 
could  write  to  you  that  I was  better.” 

“ How  did  I know?  ” he  answered  gravely.  “ It 
was  you  yourself  who  came  to  tell  me.” 

“ What  is  it  that  you  say,  Hector?  ” she  asked, 
in  some  vague  alarm. 

“On  Hallowe’en  night,”  he  continued,  in  the 
same  serious,  simple  tones,  “ I was  at  Inver- 
Mudal.  Perhaps  I was  not  caring  much  for  the 
diversions  of  the  lads  and  lasses.  I walked  up 
the  road  by  myself ; and  there  your  wraith  ap- 
peared to  me  as  clear  as  I see  you  now.  When 
I went  back  and  told  Mr.  Murray,  he  said  ‘Did 
she  come  forward  to  you,  Hector,  or  did  she  go 
away?  She  is  in  great  danger.  It  is  a warning ; 
and  if  she  went  away  from  you,  you  will  see  her 
no  more;  but  if  she  came  forward,  she  is  getting 
better — you  will  see  Flora  again.’  I knew  that 
myself ; but  I could  not  answer  him ; and  my 
heart  said  to  me  that  I must  find  out  for  myself ; 


SHE  TRIED  TO  LIFT  HER  WASTED  HAND  TO  MEET  HIS  ’ 


a Hallowe’en  wraith  115 

that  I must  go  to  seek  you;  and  I set  out  that 
night  and  walked  across  the  Reay  Forest  to  Loch 
Inver,  and  caught  the  steamer  there.  What  I 
have  been  thinking  since  I left  Loch  Inver  until 
this  hour  I cannot  tell  to  you  or  to  any  one 
living.” 

“Hector,”  she  asked,  “what  night  was  Hal- 
lowe’en night?  I have  not  been  thinking  of  such 
things.” 

“ It  was  the  night  of  Tuesday,”  he  answered. 

“And  that,”  she  said,  in  a low  voice,  “was  the 
night  that  the  fever  took  the  turn.  Mary  told  me 
they  did  not  expect  me  to  live  till  the  morning.” 

“We  will  never  speak  of  it  again,  Flora,”  said 
he,  “ for  there  are  things  that  we  do  not  under- 
stand.” And  then  he  added:  “But  now  that  I 
am  in  Greenock,  it  is  in  Greenock  I mean  to  re- 
main until  I can  take  you  away  with  me,  and 
Mary  too;  for  Sutherland  air  is  better  than 
Greenock  air  for  a Highland  lass ; and  sure  I am 
that  Mr.  Lennox  will  not  grudge  me  having  a 
bed  at  Auchnaver  Lodge.  And  you  will  get 
familiar  with  the  cottage,  Flora,  where  I hope 
you  will  soon  be  mistress ; and  then  there  will  be 
no  more  occasion  for  a great  distance  between 
you  and  me ; or  for  the  strange  things  that  some- 
times happen  when  people  are  separated  the  one 
from  the  other.” 


NANCIEBEL 


A TALE  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON 


NANCIEBEL 


A TALE  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON 


CHAPTER  I 

“GO  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE  ” 

There  was  a slight  sprinkling  of  snow  on  this 
walled  and  tiled  back  garden — or  back  yard, 
rather — in  the  High  Street  of  Stratford-on-Avon ; 
and  the  two  figures  who,  arm-in-arm,  were  slowly 
pacing  up  and  down,  were  well  wrapped  up,  for 
the  night  was  cold.  The  one  was  a tall  young 
fellow  of  three  or  four  and  twenty,  of  slim  build 
and  fair  complexion ; the  other  was  a young  lady 
of  lesser  height,  who  wore  a tall  hat  with  tragic 
sable  plumes,  and  had  also  a black  fur  boa  wound 
round  her  neck.  Not  much  could  be  seen  of  her 
face,  indeed,  except  that  she  had  a pert  and 
pretty  nose,  and  soft,  eloquent,  pleading  dark 
eyes. 

The  young  man  was  in  an  oracular  mood.  He 
was  delivering  a discourse ; and  it  was  a discourse 

119 


120 


NANCIEBEL 


on  the  letter  h.  He  was  proving  to  his  compan- 
ion that  all  the  learned  and  polished  nations  of 
ancient  and  modern  times  had  condemned  and 
despised  the  letter  //,  even  when  they  did  not 
resolutely  ignore  it;  and  he  was  insisting  that 
the  importance  conferred  on  that  letter  by  the 
English-speaking  communities,  and  the  social 
use  it  had  been  put  to,  as  a sort  of  shibboleth  and 
test  of  one’s  up-bringing,  were  the  result  of  noth- 
ing but  crass  and  vulgar  ignorance. 

“Ah!  I know  what  you  mean,  Richard,”  the 
young  lady  said  plaintively.  “ It  is  all  to  give 
me  courage — if  ever  I should  meet  your  mother 
some  day.  For  you  know,  dear,  I never  do 
make  a mistake  except  when  I am  frightened  or 
anxious.  Indeed,”  she  added  shyly,  “I  think 
you  are  rather  sorry,  Richard,  that  you  can’t 
oftener  catch  me  tripping  because  of  the  penalty. 
You  haven’t  caught  me  once  lately,  in  spite  of 
all  your  difficult  sentences.  Is  that  why  you  in- 
stituted prizes  instead  of  penalties?  And  tell 
me  this,  Richard — how  can  the  same  thing  be 
both  a prize  and  a penalty?  ” 

“Nanciebel,”  said  he,  in  answer  to  these  mys- 
terious references,  “ this  is  not  a time  for  asking 
conundrums.  I tell  you,  to-night  I am  going  to 
speak  to  my  mother — to  tell  her  the  whole 
story ” 

“ Oh,  no,  Richard,”  she  exclaimed  imploringly, 


“the  two  figures  were  well  wrapped  up,  for  the  night 


WAS  COLD 


“ GO  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE  ” 


I 2 I 


“don’t  do  that!  That  will  only  be  the  end;  and 
we  shall  never  see  each  other  again.  And  our 
acquaintanceship  has  been  so  pleasant ” 

“Acquaintanceship,  Nancy!” 

“ Whatever  you  like  to  call  it — it  has  been  so 
pleasant.  It  will  be  a thing  to  look  back  on  in 
after-years.  But  it  will  never  be  more  than 
that.” 

“ Oh,  stuff!  ” he  said,  angrily.  “ I really  won- 
der at  you,  Nancy!  I never  get  the  least  help 
or  encouragement  from  you.  Don’t  I know  that 
the  circumstances  are  difficult  enough?  But 
you — you  exaggerate  them.  You  haven’t  the 
courage  of  a mouse.  You  talk  as  if  I were  a 
prince  in  disguise,  and  as  if  you  expected  my 
mother  to  throw  you  into  the  Tower  as  soon  as 
she  got  to  know.  I wish  you  would  have  a little 
common  sense.  The  widow  and  son  of  a cap- 
tain in  the  navy  are  not  such  exalted  person- 
ages  ” 

At  this  moment  an  open  door  at  the  foot  of  the 
yard  was  still  further  opened,  and  there  stood 
revealed,  shining  in  ruddy  light,  the  stationer’s 
shop  and  “ fancy  goods  emporium  ” which  was 
owned  by  Miss  Nancy’s  elder  brother,  and  over 
which  that  young  lady  herself  presided. 

“Nancy!”  called  a small  boy — a younger 
brother. 

“All  right,  Jim!  One  moment,  Richard” — 

6 


122 


NANCIEBEL 


and  she  had  gone  to  attend  to  that  infrequent 
visitor,  a customer. 

When  she  had  returned,  and  had  taken  his 
arm  again,  and  nestled  up  to  him  (for  the  night 
was  exceedingly  cold,  and  she  was  an  affectionate 
kind  of  a creature),  she  said: 

“ Richard,  what  would  your  mother  think  if 
she  saw  me  behind  that  counter?  ” 

“She  would  think  you  were  extremely  pretty," 
said  he  with  promptitude ; “ and  what  is  more, 
when  she  gets  to  know  you,  she  will  say  you  are 
as  good,  and  true,  and  kind,  and  warm-hearted 
as  you  are  nice  to  look  at.  And  what  more  could 
you  want?  ” 

“Ah,”  said  Nanciebel  sadly,  “you  fancy  she 
will  see  me  with  your  eyes.  But  that  is  not  the 
way  of  the  world.” 

“ What  do  you  know  of  the  way  of  the  world?  ” 
he  made  answer.  “ Look  here,  Nancy.  Haven’t 
I told  you  that  my  mother’s  two  books  are  the 
Bible  and  Tennyson,  and  that  she  believes 
equally  in  both?  Very  well;  now  let  her  put 
her  faith  into  practice.  'Kind  hearts  are  more 
than  coronets,  and  simple  faith  than  Norman 
blood.’” 

“Ah,  yes;  it  is  so  pretty  to  read  about  in  a 
book,”  said  Nanciebel,  in  her  plaintive  way,  “ but 
it  is  so  different  in  actual  life ” 

He  threw  away  her  hand  from  his  arm. 


“go  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE  ” 1 23 

“ I have  no  patience  with  you ! ” he  said,  with 
an  angry  frown. 

And  she  on  her  side  was  just  as  quick.  She 
drew  herself  up,  and  said  with  proud  lips : 

“And  I,  Mr.  Kingston,  have  no  wish  to  remain 
here  to  be  insulted.  Good-night!  ” 

She  was  moving  haughtily  away;  and  he,  in 
his  temper,  was  like  to  let  her  go ; but  he  thought 
better  of  it ; he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
and  somewhat  sulkily  said,  when  he  laid  hold  of 
her: 

“ Nancy!” 

“Oh,  I suppose  you  do  not  understand,”  she 
said,  indignantly,  “ that  I have  a little  self-respect 
— that  I wish  to  be  treated  with  a little  common 
civility  and  courtesy?  But  I would  have  you 
know  that  I am  just  as  proud  as  you  are — prouder 
— although  our  stations  in  life  may  be  differ- 
ent  ” 

“ Nancy!  ” he  said,  in  a more  appealing  way. 

“ But  I am  content,”  she  continued,  in  the  same 
proud  and  indignant  tones.  “ I have  asked  noth- 
ing from  you.  This  relationship  between  you 
and  me  was  not  of  my  seeking ; and  now  that  it 
must  end — now  that  it  has  ended — good  and  well ; 
I have  nothing  to  regret.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Kingston ! ” 

And  again  she  was  going  away,  but  he  caught 
her  by  both  shoulders. 


124 


NANCIEBEL 


“Nancy!  Nancy!  listen  to  me!  How  can  you 

be  so  unreasonable ” 

She  tore  herself  from  him;  but  it  was  only  to 
burst  into  a passionate  fit  of  crying  and  sobbing, 
her  hands  over  her  face,  her  head  averted.  Of 
course  he  was  beside  her  in  a moment,  drawing 
her  toward  him,  and  petting  her. 

“I  didn’t  mean  it,  Nancy!  I meant  nothing 
at  all ! ” he  pleaded.  “ Don’t  make  me  miserable ! 

I can’t  bear  to  see  you  crying ” 

“It  is  of  no  consequence,”  she  sobbed.  “It 
has  all  come  to  an  end  now.  I knew  it  from  the 
beginning.  And — and  there  has  been  enough  of 
misery — and  enough  of  misunderstanding — and 
quarrelling — we  were  never  suited  for  each  other 
— it  has  been  a mistake  throughout — and — and 
now  there  is  an  end — and — and  I am  glad — I am 
very  glad,”  she  said,  with  another  burst  of  tears. 

“Come,  come,  Nanciebel,”  said  he  soothingly 
and  coaxingly,  “don’t  say  everything  is  at  an 
end  on  the  very  night  that  I am  going  to  appeal 
to  my  mother,  and  when  I want  all  the  self-con- 
fidence and  courage  I can  muster.  Why  don’t 
you  look  on  the  brighter  side  of  things?  Think 
how  fond  she  is  of  me ; she  would  do  anything 
for  me.  And  then,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I have 
some  claim  to  be  considered.  It  wasn’t  nice  for 
me  to  be  called  away  from  Oxford  when  my 
father  died,  at  the  end  of  my  very  first  term. 


GO  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE” 


125 


One  single  term!  But  did  I grudge  it?  No — not 
when  the  mater  put  it  before  me,  and  said  how 
lonely  she  would  be  in  the  world,  and  asked  me 
to  be  her  companion.  And  here  have  I been 
living  in  that  old-fashioned  place,  hardly  seeing 
anybody,  with  next  to  nothing  to  do ; and  when  I 
show  my  mother  how  a little  family  of  three 
would  be  ever  so  much  more  snug  and  comfort- 
able than  our  two  solitary  selves  living  there, 
don’t  you  think  she  will  agree?  ” 

“You  are  so  unkind  to  me,  Richard !”  mur- 
mured Nanciebel,  with  hidden  face ; but  she  did 
not  attempt  to  get  away  from  him  now. 

“ No,  I am  not.  It  is  you  who  are  so  unreason- 
able,” he  protested. 

“Then  say  you  will  not  do  it  again,”  the  half- 
sobbing voice  murmured. 

“ I promise  you  that,  or  anything  else  you  like, 
Nancy,”  he  said,  “if  you’ll  only  look  up,  and  let 
me  see  your  face,  and  be  good  and  kind  again, 
as  you  can  be  when  you  choose.” 

She  did  as  she  was  bidden ; and  as  she  dried 
her  eyes  she  said : 

“ I call  it  downright  wicked  of  you,  Richard, 
when  you  are  about  to  take  such  a serious  step, 
to  waste  the  time  in  quarrelling  and  trying  to  vex 
and  hurt  me.  How  do  we  know  how  many  hours 
we  may  ever  have  together?  Perhaps  this  is 
the  very  last,  and  yet  you  quarrel ” 


126 


NANCIEBEL 


“ I am  sure  I did  not!  It  was  you!  ” 

“Now,  don’t  begin  again,  Richard!  ” she  said. 
“ How  can  you  be  so  unjust,  and  inconsiderate, 
and  unkind,  when  you  know  what  I have  to 
suffer  for  your  sake?  And  are  you  really  going 
to  speak  to  your  mother  to-night?  When  shall  I 
know  what  she  says?  Oh,  I am  so  frightened 
when  I think  of  it!  I lie  awake  at  night,  won- 
dering how  you  will  begin — wondering  what 
her  answer  will  be.  And  I know,  dear,”  con- 
tinued Nanciebel,  with  a bit  of  a sigh,  “ that  if 
she  is  angry  with  anybody,  it  will  be  with  me. 
She  will  blame  it  all  on  me.  She  will  never 
think  it  was  you  who — who — began  to — began 
to ” 

“ When  once  she  sees  your  pretty  eyes,  Nancy, 
she  will  understand  the  whole  affair,”  said  he. 
“ And  that  is  what  I am  most  anxious  for.  If  I 
can  only  get  her  to  know  you — to  know  you  as 
you  are — I have  no  fear.  It  would  be  all  plain 
sailing  then.” 

“ Mothers  and  sons  have  different  ways  of  look- 
ing at  things,”  said  Nancy,  who  had  her  little 
traits  of  shrewdness,  “ especially  when  it  is  some 
one  the  son  is  fond  of.  Oh,  just  to  think  of  go- 
ing to  see  her — it  frightens  me  to  death ! I know 
what  she  will  be  saying  to  herself:  ‘You,  you 
impertinent  wretch  of  a girl,  how  dare  you  try 
to  entrap  my  son ! How  dare  you  imagine  you 


“go  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE  ” 127 

will  enter  our  family!  * And  I don't,  Richard, 
dear ! I don’t,  indeed.  I do  not  dare  to  imagine 
anything  of  the  kind.  I am  too  terrified.  It 
would  be  far  better  to  let  everything  remain  as 
it  is.  You  will  go  and  get  married  to  some  one 
whom  your  mother  will  approve  of ; and  many  a 
year  hence  you  will  be  saying  to  your  wife : ' I 
once  knew  a girl  called  Nancy.  She  lived  at 
Stratford.  I think  she  was  a little  bit  fond  of 
me — poor  Nancy!’  And  I suppose  I may  get 
married  too;  but  I wouldn’t  utter  a word  to  any- 
body about  what  is  over  and  gone ; I would  only 
think  and  think  of  the  dear,  dear  winter  nights 
when  you  used  to  walk  with  me  arm-in-arm,  and 
both  of  us  dreaming  of  all  kinds  of  impossibilities, 
and  my  heart  just  beating  and  throbbing  for 
happiness.  And  I will  never,  never  part  with 
the  locket — I don’t  care  who  may  object.  If 
ever  I marry,  I will  say  this : ‘Well,  you  must  take 
me  as  I am;  and  I can’t  help  remembering 
things.’  And  I know  this,  that  whatever  hap- 
pens to  me,  and  whether  I marry  or  don’t  marry, 
the  dearest  name  in  all  the  world  will  always  be 
to  me — Richard ! ” 

“You  speak  very  freely  of  the  chance  of  your 
marrying  some  one  else,”  said  he  (though  surely 
her  artless  confession  might  have  been  sufficient 
for  the  most  exacting  of  lovers) , “ but  I am  going 
to  make  sure  you  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind, 


128 


NANCIEBEL 


unless  you  mean  to  commit  bigamy.  Is  that 
your  little  project,  Nanciebel?  ” 

“ Ah,  it  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  with 
such  a light  heart,  Richard,  dear,”  she  answered. 
“But  I don’t  know  what  is  going  to  happen  to- 
night, nor  what  you  may  have  to  tell  me  to- 
morrow.” 

“Why,  what  can  happen?”  he  remonstrated. 
“You  don’t  understand  at  all,  Nancy.  You 
seem  to  imagine  I am  going  to  face  a stern 
parent,  who  will  storm  and  rave  and  cut  me 
off  with  fourpence-halfpenny,  and  who  will 
get  hold  of  you  and  lock  you  up  in  a cell  on 
bread  and  water.  My  goodness!  The  mater 
is  just  about  the  gentlest  little  woman  in  the 
world — you  will  find  that  out  for  yourself  some 
day.  And  why  should  you  dread  what  is  going 
to  happen  to-night?  Do  you  think  I am  going 
to  ask  her  permission  to  marry?  Not  likely! 
I hope  I am  old  enough  to  judge  and  decide 
and  act  for  myself.  But  of  course  when  I tell 
her  that  I have  judged  and  decided,  and  that 
I mean  to  act  on  my  own  account,  I hope 
she  will  take  it  all  right.  It  will  be  so  much 
more  pleasant.  Of  course,  I don’t  wish  to  annoy 
her;  I wouldn’t  vex  her  for  the  world;  and  I 
know  I have  done  nothing  to  vex  her,  if  she  will 
only  listen  to  reason,  and  if  she  will  consent  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  For  that’s  where  it  all 


“go  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE”  1 29 

lies,  Nancy,  as  I have  told  you  again  and  again. 
When  she  knows  you  she  will  just  take  you  to 
her  heart.  And  that  is  what  I am  going  to  ask 
of  her  to-night — that  I may  bring  you  out  to 
Woodend,  so  that  you  two  may  become  friends. 
She  must  know  well  enough  that  it  is  better  for 
me  to  marry  a good,  true-hearted  girl,  than  to 
run  the  racket  that  most  young  fellows  do;  and 
where  could  she  find  anybody  that  would  make  a 
more  affectionate  daughter  than  yourself,  Nancy? 
For  there  is  that  about  you,  you  know — you 

have  a fine  capacity  for  loving ” 

“You  needn’t  bring  that  as  a charge  against 
me,  Richard!  ” she  interposed  with  a pout. 

“ A charge  against  you ! It  is  your  most  ador- 
able quality,  Nancy,”  he  said,  “so  long  as  you 
reserve  all  your  loving  for  me.  But  I shan’t 
quarrel  with  you,  if  you  transfer  a little  of  it  to 
the  mater,  who  can  be  very  affectionate,  too, 
when  she  likes.  Now,  I must  be  off,  dear,  or  I 
shall  be  late  for  dinner.  To-night  I am  going 
to  see  what  can  be  done.  I think  everything 
will  go  smoothly.  And  to-morrow,  how  shall  I 
be  able  to  tell  you  what  has  happened?  You 
know  I don’t  like  coming  here  much  in  the  day- 
time, Nancy,  lest  people  should  talk.” 

“ Kate  will  be  back  from  Evesham  to-morrow 
morning,”  Nanciebel  made  answer.  “I  can  get 

out  at  any  time.  Suppose  you  meet  me  at  the 
6* 


13° 


NANCIEBEL 


end  of  the  church — by  the  river — that  will  be  out 
of  the  way.” 

“And  at  what  time,  Nancy?” 

“Any  time  you  like.  . Well,  say  a little  after 
five  o’clock  in  the  afternoon — will  that  suit  you, 
Richard?  ” 

Their  long  and  tender  adieux  over,  he  passed 
through  the  front  premises,  and  soon  he  had 
quitted  the  gas-lit  streets  of  Stratford  town,  and 
was  out  in  the  white  and  silent  country.  As  he 
strode  along  the  highway,  he  looked  up  to  the 
palely-irradiated  heavens,  and  he  repeated  aloud 
(for  he  was  about  as  deeply  steeped  in  Tennyson 
as  his  mother  was) : 

“ As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen : 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 

One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 

So  sweet  a face,  such  angel  grace, 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been : 

Cophetua  sware  a royal  oath : 

‘This  beggar-maid  shall  be  my  queen ! ’ ” 

And  of  course  he  was  the  King  Cophetua  of  these 
modern  times,  or  at  least  Nancy  appeared  to 
think  so ; though  she  would  hardly  have  appre- 
ciated the  allusion  to  her  poor  attire,  for  Nancie- 
bel  was  one  of  the  most  smartly-dressed  girls  in 
Stratford-upon-Avon. 


GO  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE 


u 


>> 


131 


And  Tennyson  was  again  cunningly  called 
into  requisition  that  evening  by  this  young  man. 
When  he  got  home  he  had  just  time  to  dress  for 
dinner — a mark  of  respect  he  never  failed  to  pay 
to  his  mother ; then  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  led 
her  into  the  dining-room  as  his  father  had  been 
wont  to  do  before  him.  It  was  a quaint  old- 
fashioned-looking  apartment;  for  Woodend  had 
been  originally  a farm-house,  and  when  it  was 
changed  into  an  independent  residence,  they  had 
transformed  the  big  kitchen  into  a dining-room ; 
so  that  here  were  stone  floors,  partially  covered 
with  rugs ; and  a vast  hearth,  with  brass  fire-dogs 
for  the  logs  of  wood ; and  shelves  over  the  side- 
board for  a brave  display  of  shining  pewter  plat- 
ters. Mr.  Richard  was  somewhat  silent  during 
this  meal.  His  mother  asked  him  how  he  had 
spent  the  day;  but  he  could  give  no  clear  ac- 
count of  himself.  The  fact  is,  this  young  man 
was  accustomed  to  haunt  the  town  of  Stratford 
and  its  neighborhood,  on  the  chance  of  his  get- 
ting a glimpse  of  a certain  gray  and  purple  dress 
— a costume  which  he  could  now  recognize  at  a 
great  distance,  and  which  told  him  that  Nanciebel 
had  come  forth  for  a little  stroll,  perhaps  across 
the  fields  to  Shottery,  or  over  the  bridge  and 
along  to  the  Weir  Brake.  It  was  wonderful  what 
an  amount  of  conversation  these  two  had  to  get 
through ; and  how  all-important  it  was  that  certain 


132 


NANCIEBEL 


things  should  be  repeated  on  every  occasion  on 
which  they  met.  Or  if  they  did  not  speak  at  all, 
they  were  still  happy  enough ; for  their  imagina- 
tions were  busy  with  the  long  life-time  stretching 
out  before  them.  Then,  before  entering  the 
town  again  on  their  return,  they  parted  (for 
Stratford,  like  most  other  small  places,  is  inclined 
to  gossip) ; and  this  separation  lasted  until  the 
dusk  of  the  winter  afternoon  came  down,  and 
until  the  lamps  were  lit,  when  he  could  approach 
the  little  stationer’s  shop  unobserved.  At  this 
time  of  the  year  there  was  not  much  doing  in 
any  of  these  establishments.  In  summer  Miss 
Nancy  was  kept  busy  enough  with  visitors, 
mostly  Americans,  who  bought  photographs  of 
the  parish  church,  of  Shakespeare’s  birthplace, 
and  of  the  beautiful  river  view  that  has  been 
spoiled  by  the  hideous  theatre,  and  who  were 
proud  to  take  away  with  them  as  memorials  of 
their  visit  all  sorts  of  pen-holders,  albums, 
needle-cases,  blotting-pads,  match-boxes,  paper- 
knives,  birthday  books,  and  similar  things,  each 
with  a little  glazed  picture  of  some  bit  of  Strat- 
ford or  of  Warwickshire  to  tell  where  it  had  come 
from.  But  in  winter  Miss  Nancy’s  situation  was 
a sinecure ; at  any  moment  she  could  leave  her 
sister  Kate  in  charge;  nay,  if  Mr.  Richard 
chanced  to  come  in  of  an  evening,  and  if  she 
was  minded  to  put  on  her  furry  jacket  and  her 


“go  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE”  133 

tall  hat,  and  go  for  a little  stroll  with  him  up 
and  down  the  walled-in  inclosure  at  the  back, 
even  her  small  brother  Jim  could  take  her  place, 
ready  to  call  out  “ Nancy  ” if  any  one  happened 
to  come  in.  Jim  played  gooseberry  to  perfec- 
tion ; for  he  was  a studious  boy,  with  a dark  love 
of  pirates,  and  cut-throats,  and  equatorial  sav- 
ages ; and  when  he  was  revelling  in  bucketfuls 
of  blood  he  little  cared  how  long  his  sister  Nancy 
might  keep  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  crisp 
snow  out  there.  Mr.  Richard  supplied  him 
bountifully  with  his  favorite  literature;  and  Jim 
had  eyes  and  ears  for  nothing  else. 

When  dinner  was  over  at  Woodend,  Richard 
Kingston  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it  for  his 
mother ; but  ere  she  passed  out  on  her  way  to  the 
drawing-room,  he  said  to  her,  with  his  eyes  cast 
down,  and  with  a most  unusual  hesitation  and 
abashment: 

“ Mother,  I want  you  to  do  me  a favor — I want 
you  to — to  read  a page  of  this  book — and — and 
to  think  about  it.  I have  marked  it — will  you 
take  it  now — and  read  it?  ” 

“Oh,  yes,  Richard,  of  course,  if  you  wish  it,” 
the  gentle-faced  little  woman  said,  wondering  at 
her  son’s  confusion.  Had  this  been  a manuscript 
poem  of  his  own  composition,  she  could  have 
understood  his  embarrassment;  but  the  famil- 
iar green  volume — her  beloved  Tennyson — why 


*34 


NANCIEBEL 


should  that  cause  the  boy  any  perturbation? 
However,  she  took  away  the  book  with  her ; and 
he  shut  the  door  after  her  and  returned  to  the 
fire-place — to  stand  there  and  ponder  over  what 
he  had  done,  and  its  possible  consequences. 

For  the  page  which  Mrs.  Kingston  had  been 
besought  to  read  and  consider  in  this  especial 
manner  contained  three  verses ; and  the  verses 
were  these : 

“ And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 
To  yield  consent  to  my  desire 

She  wished  me  happy,  but  she  thought 
I might  have  look’d  a little  higher; 

And  I was  young — too  young  to  wed : 

‘Yet  must  I love  her  for  your  sake; 

Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,  ’ she  said : 

Hex  eyelid  quiver’d  as  she  spake. 

“ And  down  I went  to  fetch  my  bride : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease ; 

This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 

1 loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 

And  dews  that  would  have  fall'n  in  tears, 

I kiss’d  away  before  they  fell. 

“ I watch’d  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see ; 

She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me ; 


“go  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE”  135 

And  turning  look’d  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 

And  rose,  and,  with  a silent  grace 

Approaching,  press’d  you  heart  to  heart.” 

Would  the  gentle-eyed  and  gentle-voiced  little 
widow  in  the  next  room  understand?  Surely 
the  message — the  entreaty — was  clear  enough! 
Yet  he  was  afraid  of  his  own  temerity;  and  like- 
wise he  was  afraid  that  when  the  time  came  for 
explanation,  he  could  not  tell  her  all  that  Nancie- 
bel  was  to  him.  When  ought  he  to  go  and  see 
what  impression  had  been  made?  Perhaps  it 
would  be  more  prudent  to  wait  until  the  first 
surprise  was  over — until  she  had  had  time  to  see 
that  it  was  but  natural  her  son  should  choose  for 
himself  a mate. 

As  he  stood  considering,  the  door  was  opened, 
and  his  mother  appeared.  With  a sudden  sink- 
ing of  the  heart,  he  noticed  that  her  lips  were 
pale,  and  her  eyes  anxious  and  concerned.  She 
shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  came  quickly  for- 
ward, her  gaze  fixed  intently  on  his  face. 

“Richard,”  she  said,  in  an  undertone,  “who 
is  she?  ” 

Pie  was  startled — and  frightened. 

“At  all  events,”  he  said  hastily,  “you  may  be 
sure  of  this,  that  she  is  worthy  to  be  brought 
into  this  house,  and  to  be  received  by  you  as 
your  daughter.” 


1 36 


NANCIEBEL 


It  was  a little  speech  he  had  prepared  before- 
hand; but  now  it  did  not  seem  to  have  any 
effect. 

“Who  is  she,  Richard?  ” the  widow  again  de- 
manded. 

He  told  her. 

“ A shop-girl ! ” she  said  faintly. 

“No,  mother,  not  at  all!”  he  exclaimed 
eagerly.  “The  place  belongs  to  her  brother, 
and  she  merely  looks  after  it  for  him.  He  is 
very  well  off — you  know  Emmet  & Marlow — 
he  is  a watchmaker  himself,  and  I suppose  started 
this  other  business  for  the  benefit  of  his  two 
sisters.  But  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  it, 
mother?  She  will  cease  to  have  any  connection 
with  the  shop  the  moment  you  say  the  word. 
And  as  for  herself,  there  is  not  a dearer  or  better 
girl  in  the  whole  country.  I am  certain  you  will 
be  the  first  to  say  as  much  when  you  get  to  know 
her ” 

“Surely,  Richard,”  the  little  woman  said,  in  a 
kind  of  wistful  way,  “you  might  have  chosen 
some  one  whose  family  was  known  to  us — who 
was  known  to  your  own  friends  and  relatives.  I 
do  not  say  anything  against  the  girl ; it  would 
not  be  just ; but  she  must  herself  be  aware  how 
strange,  how  unusual  the  whole  situation  is.  A 
clandestine  engagement — how  came  she  to  con- 
sent to  that?  ” 


GO  FETCH  YOUR  ALICE  HERE” 


137 


“Mother,”  said  he,  taking  both  her  hands  in 
his,  “ that  was  all  my  fault ! I ought  to  have  told 
you  long  ago;  but  Nancy  was  afraid.  Cannot 
you  understand — isn’t  it  clear  in  the  poem  I 
asked  you  to  read?  Indeed,  she  was  quite  in 
despair;  she  does  not  know  how  gentle,  and 
kind,  and  considerate  you  are ; she  is  terrified  at 
the  thought  of  meeting  you ; indeed,  again  and 
again  she  has  told  me  that  what  I wished  was  an 
impossibility,  and  that  she  would  never  be  the 
means  of  bringing  about  any  dissension  between 
you  and  me.  Well,  I hope  that  will  never  arise 
— she  couldn’t  bear  it — she  says  she  would  rather 
give  me  up  a hundred  times  over ” 

The  mother  looked  at  her  handsome  boy. 

“Richard,”  she  said,  “you  know  I wish  for 
nothing  but  your  happiness ; there  is  no  sacrifice 
of  my  own  feelings,  or  my  own  prejudices,  I 
wouldn’t  make  if  I was  sure  it  would  make  you 
happy.  But  consider.  Young  men  of  your  age 
are  apt  to  form  such  fancies.  The  girl  may  be 
everything  you  say — and  yet — and  yet  it  might 
prove  to  be  only  misery  for  both  her  and  you  in 
the  long  run ” 

“Mother,  I want  you  to  see  her!”  he  cried, 
confident  that  Nanciebel’s  soft  dark  eyes  would 
be  sufficient  to  resolve  away  all  these  doubts  and 
fears. 

The  widow  was  silent  for  a moment  or  two. 


NANCIEBEL 


138 

“May  I bring  her  to  see  you,  mother?”  he 
entreated. 

“ Would  it  be  wise, Richard?  ” she  said  in  reply. 
“ Would  not  that  be  making  a family  compact — 
would  it  not  be  recognizing  as  a serious  engage- 
ment what  may  after  all  be  a mere  passing  infat- 
uation? Have  patience,  my  dear  child;  take 
time ; think  what  a terrible  thing  it  might  be  to 
pledge  your  whole  future,  and  to  find  out  that 
you  had  cause  to  repent.  Your  Uncle  Alexander 
has  often  asked  you  to  go  out  to  Shanghai ; well, 
you  know  how  I should  grieve  to  lose  you,  even 
for  a week  or  a day;  but  wouldn’t  it  be  wise  if 
you  were  to  go  away  from  Warwickshire  for 
three  months  or  six  months,  and  see  whether 
your  mind  might  not  change  in  the  interval?  I 
know  what  these  sudden  fancies  are  worth . They 
are  common  to  both  young  men  and  young 
women — illusions  of  the  brain — the  most  uncer- 
tain guides.  It  is  for  you  own  sake  I speak, 
dear!  You  see  how  I am  willing  to  put  aside  my 
own  prejudices ; it  is  not  because  of  her  station 
in  life  that  I object;  after  all,  that  is  not  of  the 
first  importance.  But  what  surely  is  of  the  first 
importance  is  that  you  should  know  your  own 
minds — that  your  affection  for  each  other  should 
be  tried  and  found  capable  of  standing  the  strain 
of  absence.  Richard,  to  please  me,  will  you  go 
out  for  a few  months  to  Shanghai?  ” 


A PRESENTATION 


J3  9 


“Yes,  I will,  mother, ” he  answered  cheerfully 
and  confidently,  “ if  you  ask  me  after  you  have 
come  to  know  Nancy  a little.  Let  that  be  the 
first  thing — then  you  will  be  able  to  judge  and 
decide.  Let  me  bring  her  to  see  you!  ” 

The  widow  hesitated,  reluctant;  but  this  hand- 
some lad  held  her  hands  in  his ; and  what  would 
she  not  do  for  his  sake? 

“Very  well,”  said  she. 

He  kissed  her. 

“ There  is  the  dearest  mother  in  all  the  world ! 
Ah,  when  you  and  Nancy  are  friends,  you  won’t 
talk  about  Shanghai;  you’ll  be  as  anxious  as  I 
am  that  she  should  come  and  live  with  you  at 
Woodend.  What  a pleasant  companion  for  you, 
mother — so  kind,  and  light-hearted,  and  loving. 
I’ll  tell  her,  mother!  You  shall  see  her  to-mor- 
row. And  you  won’t  scrutinize  her  too  severely  ? 
No,  you  won’t  be  able — when  you  look  at  Nancie- 
bel’s  eyes!  ” 


CHAPTER  II 
A PRESENTATION 

Radiant,  triumphant,  with  all  the  light- 
hearted hope  and  courage  of  youth,  Richard 
Kingston  went  to  keep  his  assignation  with  Nan- 


140 


NANCIEBEL 


ciebel.  It  had  snowed  heavily  all  the  preceding 
night  and  all  the  morning;  but  the  afternoon 
had  brightened  somewhat,  and  in  the  western 
skies  there  was  now  a pale  glow  of  saffron, 
though  that  was  hardly  strong  enough  to  tinge 
the  cold  white  landscape. 

When  he  reached  the  church,  even-song  was 
going  forward ; through  the  windows  he  could  see 
the  gas-jets  all  lit  up — points  of  lemon-yellow 
fire  in  the  dusk ; and  ever  and  anon  came  the  soft 
thunder-roll  of  the  organ,  and  the  clear  singing 
of  the  choir.  He  walked  along  to  the  river-side. 
The  elms  overhead  were  heavily  draped  with 
snow,  for  not  a breath  of  wind  was  stirring. 
The  dull  green  surface  of  the  Avon  was  broken 
here  and  there  by  gray  patches  of  ice  floating 
down  with  the  slow  current.  On  the  other  side 
were  the  flat  white  meadows ; and  beyond  these 
again  white  slopes  and  heights,  with  black  hedges 
and  trees  protruding.  The  world  was  quite 
silent — save  for  the  hushed  and  slumberous 
music  in  the  church. 

Now,  some  one  had  considerately  cleared  a 
path  from  the  porch  to  the  side  of  the  stream ; so 
that  when  Nanciebel  came  along,  the  deep  snow 
caused  no  inconvenience  either  to  her  skirts  or  to 
her  neat,  small  ankles.  It  was  a cold  and  cheer- 
less try  sting-place,  to  be  sure;  but  love's  fires 
burn  independently  of  the  weather;  and  it  was 


A PRESENTATION 


141 

not  the  wintry  landscape  that  was  in  Miss 
Nancy’s  mind. 

Nor  was  it  in  Mr.  Richard’s  mind  either;  for 
now,  and  quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  he 
experienced  a new  emotion — an  emotion  that 
caused  him  no  little  disquiet.  Hitherto,  when- 
ever he  had  caught  sight  of  Nancy,  his  heart 
had  filled  with  joy;  the  most  distant  glimpse  of 
the  gray  and  purple  dress  and  the  sable-plumed 
hat  had  been  like  a kiss  for  sweetness ; his  eyes 
lighted  up  to  welcome  her.  But  now,  to  his 
amazement  and  dismay,  he  found,  as  Nanciebel 
approached,  that  he  was  grown  anxiously  critical. 
He  scrutinized  her — her  appearance,  her  expres- 
sion, her  dress,  her  manner  of  walking,  as  if  he 
feared  that  some  objection  might  be  taken.  And 
perhaps  she  noticed  his  unusual  look  as  she 
timidly  gave  him  her  hand.  She  flushed  a 
little ; and  when  she  spoke,  it  was  with  averted 
eyes. 

“You  asked  me  to  meet  you,  Richard,”  said 
she,  “and  I have  come;  but  not  with  any  kind 
of  expectation.  You  were  too  confident.  But 
don’t  think  I shall  be  annoyed  or  disappointed; 
I knew  what  your  mother  would  say ” 

Ah,  well,  the  sound  of  her  voice — with  its  mys- 
terious charm,  which  could  thrill  his  heart  with 
the  simplest  phrase — that  delightful  sound  gave 
him  courage  again ; how  could  his  mother  with- 


142 


NANCIEBEL 


stand  those  soft,  low,  penetrating  tones?  What 
mattered  it  what  kind  of  gloves  she  wore,  what 
kind  of  brooch  was  at  her  neck,  when  that  tender 
voice  could  win  its  way  to  the  heart,  when  those 
soft  dark  eyes  could  plead  for  kindness? 

“But  you’re  all  wrong,  Nancy,”  said  he  with 
a kind  of  forced  cheerfulness  (for  it  had  alarmed 
him  to  find  that  he  could  scan  the  appearance  of 
his  sweetheart  in  this  critical  way) . “ The  mater 

wants  you  to  come  and  see  her.  It  will  be  all 
right — as  I told  you  it  would.  Of  course ” 

“Of  course  what,  Richard?  ” she  said,  seeing 
he  hesitated. 

“Well,  you  can’t  expect  impossibilities, 
Nancy,”  said  he  vaguely. 

“ Richard, ” she  said,  “why  don’t  you  confess 
the  truth?  Your  mother  is  surprised  and  grieved 
by  what  you  have  told  her;  and  although  she 
may  have  said  that  you  might  take  me  to  see 
her,  it  was  against  her  will,  and  only  to  please 
you.  And  you  know  she  will  never  really  con- 
sent, though  she  may  formally  do  so,  out  of  her 
fondness  for  you.  Very  well;  why  should  you 
vex  and  trouble  her  any  more?  I say  now  what 
I said  yesterday.  Let  this  stop  where  it  is.  Let 
us  be  friends — true  friends — always  and  always 
— but  nothing  more  than  that.  Then  we  can 
grieve  no  one.” 

“And  this  is  what  your  affection  comes  to?  ’ 


A PRESENTATION 


143 


said  he  reproachfully.  “ I thought  you  loved 
me,  Nancy ! ” 

Tears  could  rise  quickly  to  those  dark  lashes. 

“ It  is  not  my  fault,  Richard,”  said  she.  “ But 
everything  is  against  us.  I knew  your  mother 
would  say  no ” 

“But  she  does  not  say  no!”  he  exclaimed. 
“Nothing  of  the  kind.  Of  course,  as  I say,  you 
can’t  expect  impossibilities.  You  can’t  expect 
her  to  be  enthusiastic.  What  woman  would  be, 
about  a proposed  daughter-in-law  she  has  never 
seen?  It  is  but  natural  for  her  to  have  doubts. 
How  can  she  know  how  thoroughly  you  and  I 
understand  each  other?  And  it  is  for  your  hap- 
piness as  well  as  mine,  that  she  talks  about 
separation — about  the  necessity  for  some  con- 
siderable time  of  separation — to  see  whether  we 
know  our  own  minds.  Six  months  at  Shanghai 
—that’s  what  she  proposes  for  me,  Nancy!  ” 

“Shanghai!  ” repeated  Nancy,  and  she  looked 
up  with  a frightened  stare. 

“Yes,  indeed.  And  it’s  you  who  have  to  save 
me  from  that  banishment.  It  all  rests  on  your 
shoulders,”  he  continued  more  cheerfully.  “ But 
I know  you  will  come  through  the  ordeal  in 
triumph.  Who  could  withstand  your  eyes, 
Nanciebel?  You  don’t  know  yourself  what  a 
winning  fascination  they  have.  And  you  won’t 
be  nervous — after  the  first  second ; you  will  see 


144 


NANC1EBEL 


my  mother  wants  to  be  kind.  You  remember 
how  the  ‘Miller’s  Daughter’  was  anxious  about 
what  dress  would  please ; but  you  have  nothing 
to  fear  on  that  score ; you  are  always  as  neat  and 
pretty  and  in  good  taste  as  it  is  possible  to  be. 
I wish  I could  help  you,  Nanciebel;  but  I can’t. 
You’ve  got  to  do  it  all ” 

“Richard,”  said  she,  a little  proudly,  “don’t 
you  think  it  is  rather — rather  unfair — that  I 
should  be  taken  out  to  Woodend  on  approval?  ” 

“ Well,  so  it  would,”  he  answered  her,  “ if  any- 
thing of  the  kind  were  in  contemplation.  But  it 
isn’t  so.  You  are  going  out  to  make  the  acquain- 
tance of  my  mother ; and  you  will  find  her  ready 
to  welcome  you,  be  sure  of  that.  Of  course,”  he 
added,  in  rather  a stammering  fashion,  “I — I 
hope  you  on  your  side  will  be — well,  conciliatory 
— and  nice.  You  need  not  take  it  as  if  it  were  a 
hostile  challenge  between  two  women — each  anx- 
ious to  criticise  the  other.  If  you  go  out  there 
determined  to  make  friends,  Nancy,  it  will  be  all 
right ” 

She  looked  rather  blank  for  a second  or 
two. 

“If  I go,  it  will  be  for  your  sake,  Richard,” 
she  said ; “ but  what  I am  most  afraid  of  is  that 
I shall  be  so  terrified  as  to  be  able  to  do  nothing. 
Your  mother  will  think  me  stiff,  or  ill-mannered, 
or  stupid,  when  I am  simply  frightened.  You 


A PRESENTATION 


145 


see,  you  are  all  impetuosity  and  eagerness ; you 
don’t  care;  you  don’t  consider  what  an  awkward 
position  I shall  be  in.  It  is  not  as  if  I were  be- 
ing taken  out  to  visit  your  mother  by  some  ac- 
quaintance knowing  us  both.  I am  presented 
to  her  all  of  a sudden,  as  some  one  who  proposes 
to  become  her  daughter-in-law.  It’s  nothing  to 
you ; you  think  it  is  all  right  and  natural ; but  it 
is  dreadful  for  me.  I know  what  she  will  be 
thinking — that  I am  a forward,  impertinent  minx 
without  any  delicacy  of  feeling,  or  propriety  of 
conduct ” 

“Oh,  yes,”  he  broke  in  scornfully.  “She  is 
likely  to  think  that  of  you  after  she  has  spo- 
ken to  you  for  three  minutes ! That  is  precisely 
your  character,  Nanciebel;  you  are  so  brazen  in 
audacity ! '” 

“And  when  is  this  fearful  thing  to  be  got 
through,  Richard,  dear?  ” asked  Nancy,  looking 
down. 

“ To-morrow  afternoon,”  he  said  with  ineffable 
impudence  (just  as  if  his  mother  had  made  the 
appointment).  “I  will  bring  in  the  pony-chaise 
for  you,  and  drive  you  out.” 

“ But — but  where  shall  I meet  you?  ” she  asked 
again. 

“I  will  come  for  you,”  he  answered. 

“ Not  into  the  High  Street,  ” she  hinted  timidly. 

“Why  not?” 

7 


146 


NANCIEBEL 


“ The  people  would  talk,  ” she  said  with  lowered 
eyes. 

“Let  them  talk,”  he  answered  boldly.  “It  is 
time  this  hole-and-corner  arrangement  was  done 
with.  I want  the  whole  thing  to  be  recognized 
now.  When  they  see  Miss  Nancy  Marlow  driv- 
ing out  to  Woodend,  I dare  say  they  will  talk. 
So  much  the  better ! I am  not  for  half- 
measures.” 

“No,  you  never  are,  Richard,”  Nancy  said, 
with  a bit  of  a sigh.  “And  I wonder  what  will 
come  of  it  all ! ” 

Nor  did  she  cease  to  be  timorous  and  appre- 
hensive. It  was  bad  enough  that  she  was  going 
out  to  Woodend  “on  approval;”  but  it  was  ever 
so  much  worse  that  the  neighbors  should  know 
it — or  guess  at  it — from  the  fact  of  his  driving 
in  to  the  High  Street  to  call  for  her. 

“Don’t  you  think,  Richard,  dear,”  said  she  at 
last,  “ it  would  be  better  if  I met  you  somewhere 
a little  way  out  of  the  town — say  at  the  railway 
bridge ” 

“ Then  you  would  have  to  walk  all  that  way 
through  the  snow,  Nancy,”  he  pointed  out,  “and 
your  boots  would  get  wet,  or  even  muddied,  if 
there  was  a thaw.  You  see,  I want  you  to  be  as 
neat  as  a new  pin,  as  you  always  are;  not  that  I 
care  about  such  things  myself ; as  long  as  your 


A PRESENTATION  147 

heart  is  warm  and  loving,  what  do  I mind  what 
dress  you  wear?  ” 

“I  understand,”  Nancy  said  at  once,  with  quick 
perception.  “You  are  quite  right,  Richard. 
What  would  your  mother  say  if  I went  with  be- 
draggled skirts  and  soiled  boots?  Of  course,  of 
course,  you  are  quite  right ; you  must  come  for 
me;  and  Jim  will  see  that  the  pavement  is  dry.” 

“ Have  you  any  white-rose  scent  for  your 
handkerchief,  Nancy?  ” he  asked.  “That  is  the 
only  scent  the  mater  seems  fond  of.  No?  Then 
I’ll  try  and  get  some,  and  send  it  in  to  you  this 
evening.  Oh,  you  will  make  a conquest,  be 
sure ! ” 

“What  time  to-morrow  afternoon,  Richard, 
must  I be  ready?  ” 

“ Four:  will  that  do?  ” 

“Very  well;  now  I must  be  going  back  into 
the  town.  Four  o’clock  to-morrow  afternoon. 
Oh,  dear,  I wish  it  was  all  over!  ” said  Nanciebel, 
plaintively. 

And  perhaps  the  gentle  little  widow  out  there 
at  Woodend  had  some  such  thought  in  her  mind 
when  her  son  told  her  of  this  proposed  visit  on 
the  following  day.  It  is  true  she  knew  what  was 
expected  of  her.  Her  role  had  been  pointed  out 
to  her  that  evening  on  which  Richard  had  slipped 
the  green  volume  into  her  hand.  And  indeed 


148 


NANCIEBEL 


she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  if  the  girl  on 
whom  he  had  set  his  affections  seemed  to  have 
an  amiable  disposition  and  good  manners,  she 
would  not  allow  the  fact  of  her  having  stood 
behind  a counter  to  influence  her  mind.  So 
many  young  men  had  done  worse ! And  even  if 
there  were  some  little  defect  here  or  there,  some 
lack  of  sensitiveness  or  refinement,  might  not 
that  give  way  to  womanly  sympathy  and  guid- 
ance? This  little  woman  was  prepared  to  do  a 
good  deal  for  her  beloved  son.  Whom  else  had 
she  to  care  for  in  the  world? 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  all  these  kindly  and 
considerate  resolves,  and  notwithstanding  the 
diligent  coaching  that  Nanciebel  had  received 
from  her  sweetheart,  it  must  be  confessed  that 
the  meeting  between  the  two  women  on  the 
following  afternoon  was,  especially  at  first,  of 
the  most  constrained  and  ominous  kind.  Mr. 
Richard  was  so  proud  of  the  opportunity  of 
showing  off  the  beautiful  and  precious  prize  he 
had  won  for  himself,  that  he  hardly  heeded;  he 
was  eager  and  talkative,  and  his  volubility  seemed 
in  a measure  to  fill  the  void  of  silence  that  other- 
wise might  have  been  marked.  It  is  true,  he 
had  been  disappointed  that  his  mother  and  his 
chosen  bride  did  not  fall  upon  each  other’s  neck 
and  weep  gentle  and  sympathetic  tears ; and  he 
had  been  surprised  to  hear  the  little  widow  ad- 


A PRESENTATION 


149 


dress  Nancy  as  “Miss  Marlow;”  but  he  would 
not  admit  to  himself  that  there  was  any  coldness 
on  either  side.  Not  at  all;  he  was  descanting  to 
his  mother  on  Nancy’s  general  characteristics; 
indulging  in  a little  sarcasm  even  (to  give  the 
whole  interview  a sort  of  playful  and  friendly 
cast) ; but  conclusively  proving  that  Nancy  and 
his  mother  held  precisely  the  same  opinions  and 
were  bound  to  agree  upon  every  possible  subject. 
Nancy,  for  example,  was  a devoted  admirer  of 
the  late  Lord  Beaconsfield,  and  did  not  fail  to 
wear  a primrose  on  Primrose  Day.  Nancy  be- 
lieved that  the  honor  of  the  country  was  safe  in 
the  hands  of  the  Conservative  party,  and  that 
Radicals,  and  Socialists,  and  atheists,  and  peo- 
ple of  that  sort  had  nothing  in  view  but  the 
destruction  of  property  and  the  total  abolition 
of  law.  Nancy  was  a devout  adherent  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  considered  it  unbecom- 
ing, if  not  positively  dangerous,  for  bishops  to 
have  any  dealings  with  the  Dissenters.  Nancy 
strongly  disapproved  of  women ’s-right  women. 
Nor  was  Nancy  quite  sure  about  the  influence  of 
the  school  boards,  which  she  considered  apt  to 
draw  away  the  children  from  their  proper  and 
natural  guardians  and  friends,  who  had  always 
been  good  to  them  in  times  past.  Nancy  detested 
the  use  of  cosmetics,  and  wondered  that  respect- 
able girls  in  London  could  condescend  to  such 


NANCIEBEL 


15° 

practices.  As  to  tight  lacing,  Nancy  was  also 
sound;  who  but  a fool  would  want  to  sing,  “I’d 
be  a butterfly?”  In  short,  it  was  Nancy,  and 
Nancy,  and  Nancy  all  the  time;  why  should  any 
one  speak  of  Miss  Marlow? 

But  here  a significant  little  incident  occurred 
which  showed  how  very  differently  mother  and 
son  viewed  this  position  of  affairs.  When  Nan- 
ciebel  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  Mr. 
Richard  insisted  on  her  laying  aside  her  hat  and 
jacket  and  gloves,  so  that  she  should  have  the 
appearance  of  being  quite  at  home ; and  then  he 
conducted  her  to  a little  windowed  recess  at  the 
top  of  the  room  which  his  mother  used  as  a bou- 
doir. It  was  a remarkably  snug  and  cozy  apart- 
ment, a couch  running  round  three  sides  of  it ; 
shelves  of  books  covering  two  of  the  walls ; the 
windows  commanding  a view  of  the  garden, 
where  thrushes  and  blackbirds  and  starlings  were 
hunting  about  among  the  snow  for  the  food 
which  the  widow  was  wont  to  fling  abroad  with 
a generous  hand.  It  would  have  pleased  Mr. 
Richard  if  his  mother  and  his  sweetheart,  on 
entering  this  secluded  little  place,  had  sat  down 
together,  perhaps  arm-in-arm ; but  somehow  Miss 
Marlow  took  her  seat  on  one  side,  where  she  re- 
mained looking  amiable  and  attentive  if  somewhat 
silent,  while  Mrs.  Kingston,  on  the  couch  oppo- 
site her,  listened  to  her  son’s  dithyrambics  or 


A PRESENTATION 


I5I 

glanced  out  upon  the  wintry  garden  as  she 
spoke.  And  what  now  happened  was  this. 
Mr.  Richard,  having  conclusively  shown  that 
Miss  Marlow’s  mental  and  moral  qualities,  and 
her  opinions  on  political,  religious,  and  social 
subjects  generally,  were  such  as  to  commend  her 
to  any  intelligent  and  reasonable  human  being, 
proceeded,  in  a sort  of  half-playful  and  kindly 
way,  to  say  something  of  the  young  lady’s  ap- 
pearance. You  see,  she  appeared  to  be  already 
one  of  the  family.  Here  she  was,  in  the  snug 
little  corner,  not  with  hat  and  gloves  on,  as 
though  she  were  paying  a formal  call,  but  as  if  she 
had  just  come  down  from  her  own  room  to  have 
a little  chat  before  tea  was  brought  in.  And 
thus  it  was  that  when  Mr.  Richard,  chancing  to 
talk  of  the  fashion  in  which  his  beloved  wore  her 
hair,  went  on  to  suggest  that  perhaps  it  might 
suit  her  better  to  wear  it  a little  higher  on  her 
forehead,  he  quite  naturally  and  unthinkingly 
crossed  over  to  her,  and  with  a light  touch  or  two 
of  his  fingers  pushed  back  her  hair,  so  as  to  in- 
vite his  mother’s  opinion.  But  the  reply  he  re- 
ceived startled  him. 

“ Richard ! ” the  widow  exclaimed,  in  amazed 
protest;  and  then  all  at  once  he  knew  how 
differently  his  mother  and  he  were  regarding  this 
young  lady.  Not  yet  was  she  the  daughter  of 
the  house,  to  be  treated  with  familiar  little  caress- 


*52 


NANCIEBEL 


ings  and  pettings;  she  was  only  a visitor,  she 
was  only  Miss  Marlow,  to  be  treated  with  deco- 
rum and  respect.  As  for  poor  little  Nancy,  she 
was  terribly  embarrassed.  Richard,  she  knew, 
should  not  have  taken  this  liberty ; but  he  had 
done  it  almost  before  she  was  aware,  and  indeed 
it  was  not  until  afterward  she  bethought  her  of 
what  Mrs.  Kingston  might  guess  from  this  little 
incident.  Mr.  Richard  did  not  try  any  more  ex- 
periments with  Miss  Marlow’s  hair,  or  seek  to 
alter  the  way  in  which  it  lay  on  her  forehead. 
He  returned  to  his  seat  with  an  uneasy  conscious- 
ness that  he  had  made  a mistake — and  perhaps 
even  compromised  Nancy  a little ; but  fortunately 
at  this  moment  tea  was  brought  in,  and  that 
proved  to  be  a welcome  distraction. 

For  in  truth,  the  widow,  critical  as  she  might 
be  of  her  son’s  choice,  could  hardly  help  sympa- 
thizing with  the  girl  in  the  lonely  and  embarrass- 
ing position  in  which  she  was  placed ; and  then 
again,  Nancy,  though  shy  and  silent,  was  obvi- 
ously most  anxious  to  please.  Once,  indeed,  in 
answer  to  a question,  she  said,  “Yes,  ma’am;’’ 
and  although  Mr.  Richard  inwardly  winced — for 
the  phrase  recalled  the  shop  and  the  counter — his 
mother  did  not  appear  to  look  on  it  in  that  light. 
Perhaps  it  was  a kind  of  pathetic  confession  of 
humility ; perhaps  it  was  a kind  of  tribute  to  the 
widow’s  dignity ; and  every  one  knows  how  peo- 


A PRESENTATION 


153 


pie  who  are  not  gifted  with  any  great  magnificence 
of  manner  are  pleased  when  they  think  they  im- 
press. 

Moreover,  when,  in  the  general  talk  that  now 
ensued  round  the  tiny  tea-table,  there  was  any 
possibility  of  a difference  of  opinion,  Mr.  Richard 
adroitly  managed  that  his  mother  and  Nancy 
should  be  on  the  same  side,  while  he  challenged 
their  combined  forces  from  the  other.  Take  the 
question  of  Mops,  for  example.  The  Mop  in 
Stratford-on-Avon,  as  in  some  other  old  English 
towns,  is  a hiring  fair  at  which  farm-servants, 
men  and  women,  come  in  from  the  surrounding 
country  to  offer  their  services  to  master  or  mis- 
tress; and  for  the  refreshment  of  these  stout- 
stomached  folks,  or  any  other  who  may  be  of  a 
like  mind,  oxen  and  pigs  are  roasted  in  the  prin- 
cipal thoroughfares — the  hungry  yokel  paying 
for  a slice  off  whatever  portion  of  the  slow-revolv- 
ing animal  may  take  his  fancy,  and  carrying 
the  smoking  plate  into  the  adjacent  public-house, 
where  he  can  wash  down  the  beef  or  pork  with 
copious  draughts  of  ale.  Now,  there  are  those 
who  hold  that  this  roasting  of  a huge  carcass 
and  the  public  ladling  of  gravy  is  a brutalizing 
spectacle ; and  they  would  have  that  feature  of 
the  Mop  suppressed,  even  if  the  other  concomi- 
tants— the  merry-go-rounds,  the  boxing  booths, 
the  rifle  galleries,  and  what-not — were  allowed 


r54 


NANCIEBEL 


to  remain.  This  was  Mrs.  Kingston’s  opinion; 
and  Mr.  Richard  cunningly  contrived  that  it 
should  be  Nanciebel’s  also. 

“ Oh,  I think  the  old-world  customs  should  be 
preserved,”  said  he  boldly,  “so  long  as  they 
don’t  involve  cruelty  to  animals — and  you  don’t 
put  an  ox  to  shame  by  roasting  it  in  public. 
They  talk  of  asking  the  magistrates  to  suppress 
the  Mop  altogether — so  that  I suppose  they 
wouldn’t  even  allow  the  men  and  women  to  come 
into  the  town  with  a bit  of  straw  stuck  in  their 
cap,  or  whatever  other  symbol  it  is  that  tells  the 
farmer  what  kind  of  work  the  applicant  wants. 
Well,  I think  it  is  a pity;  I think  the  old  cere- 
monies and  customs  should  be  preserved ” 

“ The  roasting  of  these  animals  in  the  streets 
seems  to  me  simply  horrid,”  his  mother  said. 

“Well,  I know  that  is  Nancy’s  opinion,  too,” 
he  said  (Nancy  never  having  uttered  a single 
word  to  him  at  any  time  on  the  subject).  “And 
I don’t  wonder  she  should  refuse  to  go  through 
the  streets  on  the  day  of  the  Mop.  The  smell 
of  the  cooking  is  rather  too  pronounced.  Still, 
there  is  no  reason  why  fastidious  people  like  you 
and  Nancy  should  go  near  at  all.  You  may  keep 
away.  Give  the  bucolics  their  holiday,  in  the 
manner  they  can  enjoy  it;  roasting  animals  has 
always  been  a sign  of  rejoicing;  it  is  a testimony 
— in  fact,  you  can  see  it  only  too  plainly,  if  you 


A PRESENTATION  1 55 

are  walking  along  Chapel  Street — that  there  is  fat 
in  the  land.” 

“Don’t,  Richard!”  his  mother  said,  with  a 
piteous  expression ; and  he  was  quite  willing  to 
abandon  the  controversy — leaving  his  mother 
and  Nanciebel  on  the  winning  side  together. 

Well,  the  visit  came  to  an  end  at  last ; and  Mrs. 
Kingston  bade  good-by  to  Nancy  without  a 
word  having  been  said  on  the  subject  which  was, 
no  doubt,  uppermost  in  both  their  minds.  Nor 
was  there  any  parting  embrace ; nor  the  slightest 
recognition  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  that 
had  brought  about  this  interview.  None  the 
less  was  Mr.  Richard  triumphant  as  he  drove 
away  his  chosen  bride  through  the  melting 
snow. 

“What  do  you  say  now,  Nanciebel?”  he  de- 
manded. “ Didn’t  everything  go  off  first-rate?  ” 

“O  Richard,  I am  just  dying  of  shame,”  she 
murmured,  and  she  wouldn’t  look  at  him. 

“Why,  what  is  the  matter?  ” he  asked  in  as- 
tonishment. “ I thought  everything  went  off 
most  satisfactorily ; there  wasn’t  a slip  or  mistake 
anywhere,  unless  it  was  my  own  when  I took  to 
rearranging  your  hair.  That  did  stagger  the 
mater,  I admit.” 

“Richard,”  said  she,  “didn’t  you  notice? 
When  you  asked  me  in  the  hall  if  I had  got  my 
gloves,  I said,  ‘Yes,  dear.’  The  next  moment  I 


*56 


NANCIEBEL 


thought  I should  have  sunk  through  the  floor 
with  shame  and  mortification.” 

“ I’m  sure  I did  not  notice  it,”  he  said. 

“ But  your  mother  did — I saw  her  look.” 

“Very  well,  then — a good  thing  too!  Why 
should  she  not  know  the  actual  relations  that 
exist  between  us?  Now  that  I think  of  it,  I am 
not  sorry  that  I raised  your  hair  a little  bit  on 
your  forehead,  and  tried  the  effect  of  it,  as  if  you 
already  belonged  to  me.  No,  I am  not  sorry. 
It  is  better  she  should  know ; then  she  will  un- 
derstand the  intimacy  of  our  relationship,  and 
the  length  of  time  it  has  lasted.  I have  no  doubt 
she  thought  it  was  only  a passing  fancy.  That 
was  why  she  talked  of  Shanghai.  There  was  no 
mention  of  Shanghai  this  afternoon.” 

“No,  Richard,  for  she  seemed  careful  not  to 
admit  that  she  understood  there  was  anything 
between  you  and  me,”  said  Nanciebel,  who  was  a 
good  deal  less  confident  than  her  lover.  “ She 
treated  me  just  like  a stranger — but  very  kindly, 
I must  say  that.  And — and  I am  not  nearly  so 
afraid  of  her  as  I was,”  Nanciebel  added. 

“Afraid  of  her!  ” he  repeated,  with  a laugh. 
“ Why,  you  two  will  be  the  fastest  friends  in  the 
world  within  a couple  of  months  from  now.  I 
told  you  she  would  not  be  able  to  resist  you. 
She  seemed  pleased  with  you  throughout;  and 


A PRESENTATION 


*57 


you  never  in  your  life  looked  prettier  or  more 
winning — that  I know.” 

Nanciebel  shook  her  head. 

“A  woman  understands  a woman’s  ways  of 
looking  and  talking,”  she  said.  “If  ever  she 
does  give  her  consent,  it  will  be  simply  and 
solely  for  your  sake,  Richard.  She  does  not 
like  me.” 

“ Nancy!  ” 

“Ah,  but  I know,”  said  Nanciebel  doggedly. 
“I  don’t  suppose  she  positively  hates  me — for  I 
gave  her  no  occasion  by  provoking  a quarrel  or 
anything  of  that  kind ; but  I dare  say  she  is  cry- 
ing at  this  moment,  and  wishing  in  a sort  of  way 
that  I had  never  been  born.” 

“And  you  think  that  is  the  impression  she 
formed  of  you,  Nancy?  ” he  asked.  “ I tell  you, 
you  are  too  diffident.  You  don’t  know  your  own 
value.  Of  course  she  couldn’t  say  anything — to 
your  face.  But  wait  till  I get  home  this  evening, 
then  she  will  speak;  and  be  sure,  when  I next 
see  you,  I shall  be  able  to  tell  you  something  that 
will  banish  all  those  idle  fears  and  surmises. 
You  think  you  could  judge  by  her  expression? 
Well,  then,  you  have  made  a bad  guess,  my  dear 
Nancy — as  I will  prove  to  you  to-morrow.” 

She  was  for  getting  out  of  the  pony-chaise  at 
some  point  on  the  Alcester  Road,  so  that  she 


NANCIEBEL 


158 

might  walk  into  the  town  on  foot ; but  he  would 
not  hear  of  any  such  thing ; he  cared  not  who 
might  know  he  had  won  his  bride;  he  drove 
through  Stratford,  and  along  the  High  Street, 
and  up  to  her  own  door.  As  he  bade  her  good- 
by,  he  said  he  would  call  and  see  her  the  next 
day ; he  expected  to  have  some  news  to  tell  her — 
as  the  result  of  this  memorable  interview. 

But  as  he  drove  leisurely  home  through  the 
gathering  dusk,  he  was  not  quite  so  confident 
as  he  had  professed  to  be  while  talking  to  Nan- 
ciebel.  It  was  strange  that  his  mother  had  not 
kissed  the  girl  in  taking  leave  of  her.  That 
would  have  been  sufficient  recognition.  Her 
parting  little  speech  to  the  effect  that  she  hoped 
Miss  Marlow  would  come  and  see  her  again 
might  have  been  addressed  to  the  merest  stran- 
ger. As  for  Nancy’s  contention,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  she  could  tell  that  Mrs.  Kingston 
disliked  her,  and  had  even  the  monstrous  inhu- 
manity to  wish  that  she  were  dead — he  knew  that 
was  all  nonsense.  However,  there  would  soon 
be  an  opportunity  for  him  to  learn  what  had  been 
his  mother’s  thought. 

During  dinner  nothing  of  importance  was  said 
with  regard  to  Nanciebel ; for  old  Thomas,  who 
looked  after  the  pony  and  kept  the  garden  and 
also  waited  at  table,  was  continually  coming  and 
going.  But  after  dinner,  Mr.  Richard  went 


A PRESENTATION 


*59 


direct-  with  his  mother  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  took  her  hand,  and 
smoothed  it  between  his  own. 

“ Now,  mater,  what  are  you  going  to  say 
to  me?  ” 

The  little  woman  hesitated ; it  was  a momen- 
tous crisis  in  her  simple  and  uneventful  life. 

“What  can  I say  to  you,  Richard?”  she  said 
rather  sadly.  “ I do  not  wish  to  appear  unkind 
or  inconsiderate.  But — you  must  surely  under- 
stand how  it  must  be  a shock  to  me  to  know  that 
I am  expected  to  receive  a stranger  into  our 
home ” 

“A  stranger,  mother!  ” he  exclaimed.  “ How 
long  would  she  be  a stranger?  ” 

“And  then,  my  dear  boy,”  continued  the 
mother  in  the  same  absent  way,  “ I have  been 
building  up  so  many  forecasts  of  your  future — 
and  this  is  so  entirely  different.  However,  we 
must  do  what  is  right — we  must  do  what  is  right, 
whatever  it  may  cost.  Much  as  I should  like  to 
see  you  free  from  this — this  entanglement,  I 
would  not  have  you  win  your  freedom  through 
any  dishonorable  action.  If  you  have  raised 
hopes  in  this  young  woman’s  heart — if  you  have 
pledged  your  word  to  her,  you  must  stand  by 
that.  I would  not  have  your  conscience  bur- 
dened by  the  knowledge  that  you  had  trifled  with 
her,  and  cruelly  forsaken  her;  no,  not  if  I was 


i6o 


NANCIEBEL 


thrice  as  anxious  you  should  look  elsewhere  for 
a wife ” 

“Why,  I knew  you  would  say  that,  mother!  ” 
he  cried  joyfully,  though  his  exultation  was  in 
curious  contrast  with  the  widow’s  half-concealed 
regret.  “ And  then,  consider  this — if  you  found 
her  passably  agreeable,  and  pleasant-mannered, 
and  amiable,  on  a first  and  formal  interview  like 
that — just  consider  how  she  will  improve,  how  she 
will  win  your  regard  on  more  intimate  knowledge. 
What  did  you  think  of  her,  mother?  Weren’t 
you  favorably  impressed?  I’m  sure  you  must 
have  thought  she  looked  so  pretty  and  neat  and 
modest.  Did  you  notice  how  soft  and  winning 
her  eyes  were?  Couldn’t  you  guess  what  her 
disposition  was  like?  At  all  events,  she  tried 
hard  to  please  you.  I could  see  it  in  every  look.” 

“I  have  no  fault  to  find,  Richard,”  his  mother 
said,  but  without  much  of  the  enthusiasm  he  had 
hoped  for.  “ I dare  say  she  is  a good,  honest 
girl,  and  may  make  you  a good  wife — if  only — if 
only  she  had  some  little  instruction — and  prep- 
aration  ” 

“ Mother,  Nancy  is  the  quickest  girl  in  appre- 
hension you  ever  saw ! ” he  exclaimed  eagerly. 
“I  don’t  know  in  what  you  consider  her  deficient, 
but  I know  she  would  be  delighted  to  learn — and 
especially  from  you.  Didn’t  you  see  how  re- 
spectful she  was  to  you?”  he  continued  with 


A PRESENTATION 


161 


insidious  flattery.  “ She  would  be  a most  willing 
pupil.  Of  course  you  saw  she  was  shy — that  was 
but  natural  in  a girl  of  her  age,  and  in  the  pecu- 
liar circumstances.  You  could  not  expect  her  to 
have  your  self-possession  and  grace  of  manner; 
that  is  something  that  can  only  be  acquired  by 
long  training — but  how  willingly  Nancy  would 
try  to  learn ! ” 

“ It  is  all  so  strange  tome  as  yet,  Richard,” 
Mrs.  Kingston  said  at  length,  “that  I hardly 
know  what  to  do.  But  in  such  an  important 
matter  I cannot  act  entirely  on  my  own  respon- 
sibility. I will  write  to  your  uncle  Charles. 
Perhaps  he  will  run  up  from  Bristol.” 

“Mother!  ” Mr.  Richard  protested,  with  some 
indignation.  “ Do  you  want  to  frighten  poor 
Nancy  out  of  her  senses?  A family  conclave — a 
jury  of  strangers  to  summon  the  poor  girl  before 
them ” 

“You  cannot  call  your  uncle  Charles  a 
stranger,”  his  mother  retorted,  but  without  as- 
perity; this  alarming  thing  that  had  happened 
had  stunned  and  frightened  her  rather  than 
made  her  angry.  “Who,  after  myself,  could 
have  your  interests  more  at  heart?  And  I have 
been  thinking,  Richard,  that  if  you  still  persist 
in  this  project — or  if  you  are  bound  in  honor  to 
Miss  Marlow — then  perhaps  your  uncle  Charles 
would  receive  her  into  the  vicarage  for  a while  and 


NANCIEBEL 


162 

let  her  associate  with  your  girl-cousins.  A clergy- 
man ’s  house  is  the  best  school  in  the  world  for 
any  one  who  wishes  to  pick  up  the  ways  and 
manners,  the  little  courtesies  and  politenesses  of 
refined  society.  And  I am  sure  the  separation 
would  be  wholesome  for  both  you  and  her;  it 
would  give  you  time  to  reflect ; it  would  enable 
you  to  test  the  strength  of  your  regard  for  each 
other.  Now,  Richard,  dear,  don’t  ask  me  to  say 
anything  more,  until  I have  consulted  with  your 
uncle.  I am  sure  that  our  chief  and  only  consid- 
eration will  be  your  happiness.” 

That  silenced  him,  of  course;  he  could  plead 
and  urge  no  further.  But  when  he  thought  of 
his  having  to  communicate  this  new  scheme  to 
Nancy  on  the  next  day,  his  heart  sank  within 
him.  Poor  Nanciebel ! 


CHAPTER  III 

“ ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!  ” 

In  reply  to  the  widow’s  letter,  the  Rev.  Charles 
Henningham  came  up  from  Bristol  forthwith ; he 
was  not  one  to  underestimate  the  gravity  of  such 
a crisis  in  the  family  affairs.  He  was  a small, 
thin,  nervous,  pale-faced  man,  with  large,  almost 


ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!” 


163 


feminine  eyes,  and  with  a manner  as  gentle  and 
delicate  as  that  of  his  sister.  Like  her,  too,  in 
this  particular  instance,  he  never  for  a moment 
thought  of  repudiating  the  obligations  under 
which  his  nephew  Richard  had  placed  himself — 
not  at  all ; if  the  young  man  had  pledged  his 
word  to  an  honest  and  honorable  girl,  he  must 
stand  by  it,  and  his  family  must  simply  try  to  do 
the  best  in  the  circumstances. 

Mr.  Richard  was  not  at  home  when  his  uncle 
arrived,  so  that  there  was  a little  preliminary 
conversation  between  brother  and  sister — of 
course  about  Nanciebel. 

“I  presume,  Cecilia,”  said  the  nervous  little 
clergyman,  in  his  softly-modulated  tones,  “that 
she  has  none  of  the  accomplishments  one  would 
naturally  wish  Richard’s  wife  to  have?  ” 

“ Indeed,  I never  thought  of  questioning 
Richard  on  that  point,”  Mrs.  Kingston  said,  “for 
I supposed  she  would  merely  have  the  ordinary 
education  of  one  in  her  sphere  of  life.  Of  course 
she  can  read  and  write  and  figure  up  accounts ; 
but  beyond  that,  what?  Not  that  I put  much 
value  myself  on  young-lady  accomplishments. 
A girl  can  get  on  very  well  without  Italian,  and 
French,  and  German,  and  music,  if  she  has  a 
good  manner,  and  can  write  a clever  letter,  and 
play  lawn-tennis.  But  really,  this  girl  on  whom 
Richard  has  set  his  heart  has  no  manner  at  all. 


164 


NANCIEBEL 


That  afternoon  she  was  here,  she  had  absolutely 
nothing  to  say  for  herself.  And  you  know  how 
popular  Richard  is,  Charles ; his  good  looks  and 
high  spirits  stand  him  in  good  stead  everywhere ; 
and  to  think  of  his  being  joined  for  life  to  this — 
this — well,  I will  say  nothing  against  her — but  I 
cannot  help  regarding  it  as  a cruel  misfortune. ” 

“We  must  make  the  best  of  it,  Cecilia,”  said 
the  clergyman  with  chastened  reisgnation ; “ and 
you  may  count  on  me  to  do  what  I can.  If  you 
think  she  would  gain  any  improvement  by  com- 
ing to  the  vicarage  for  a few  months — or  even 
for  a year,  if  you  consider  a lengthened  period  of 
separation  advisable — I shall  be  glad  to  take  her, 
and  she  might  join  Gertrude  and  Laura  in  their 
studies  as  far  as  that  is  practicable.  You  say  she 
appears  amiable  and  sincere ; and  I am  sure 
if  there  was  any  objectionable  feature  in  her 
character,  she  would  not  have  been  Richard’s 
choice.” 

“It  would  be  the  greatest  kindness,  Charles,” 
the  widow  said,  with  obvious  gratitude.  “ It 
might  not  be  practicable  for  her  to  join  your  girls 
in  their  studies — they  are  too  far  advanced — and 
it  would  be  too  late  in  the  day  for  her  to  begin 
music  now;  but  she  might  practise  her  hand- 
writing until  she  acquired  a good  style ; and  they 
might  teach  her  lawn-tennis.  But  above  all, 
what  I should  hope  for  is  her  gaining  a little 


ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!” 


i65 

more  self-confidence  and  frankness — familiarity 
with  good  manners — and  so  forth;  and  where 
could  she  find  two  more  charming  girls  to  ob- 
serve and  copy  than  Gertrude  and  Laura?  Of 
course  it  will  be  a difficult  thing  to  propose  to 
her,  without  wounding  her  susceptibilities.  We 
can’t  tell  her  that  she  is  ill-educated,  or  gawky 
in  manner,  or  unacquainted  with  the  ways  and 
politeness  of  a well-bred  family  ; it  will  be  easier 
to  point  out  the  necessity  for  some  period  of 
separation,  as  a test  of  their  regard  for  each 
other.  And  I hope  she  will  understand  that  it 
is  done  in  kindness ; for  after  all,  if  she  is  to  be 
Richard’s  wife,  I trust  she  will  bear  no  grudge 
against  any  one  of  us.” 

“ She  would  be  a very  ungrateful  young  woman 
if  she  did,”  said  the  clergyman,  with  unusual  se- 
verity, “ considering  the  very  great  sacrifices  we 
are  all  of  us  prepared  to  make  for  her.” 

And  what  did  Nanciebel  say  to  this  scheme 
when  it  was  laid  before  her?  It  was  Mr.  Richard 
who  communicated  it  to  her.  On  the  day  follow- 
ing his  uncle’s  arrival  he  called  in  at  the  shop  in 
the  High  Street,  and  asked  Nancy  to  come  for 
a stroll  with  him;  and  as  her  sister  Kate  was 
there,  she  consented ; and  the  two  of  them  walked 
along  Chapel  Street  and  Church  Street  without 
the  slightest  pretence  of  concealment.  The  tem- 
porary thaw  had  been  succeeded  by  hard  frost; 


1 66 


NANCIEBEL 


the  snow  again  lay  crisp  and  clear,  while  the 
roads  glittered  with  broken  ice  in  the  cart-ruts. 
There  was  a blue  sky  overhead ; it  was  a bright, 
inspiriting  morning;  these  young  folks  had  no 
thought  of  the  cold.  They  passed  the  church ; 
they  went  down  by  the  mill ; they  ascended  the 
slippery  steps  of  the  foot-bridge,  and  there,  lean- 
ing on  the  rail,  they  paused  to  look  at  the  slug- 
gish green  river,  or  at  the  wide  white  snow-land- 
scape all  shining  in  the  sun.  And  here  it  was 
that  he  told  her  what  his  mother  and  uncle 
proposed  should  be  done. 

“O  Richard,”  she  said,  when  his  tale  was 
finished,  “ that  is  as  bad  as  your  going  to  Shang- 
hai! ” 

“Well,  it  is  not,  Nanciebel!  ” he  made  answer. 
“For  I should  be  allowed  to  go  down  and  see 
you  from  time  to  time ; and  it  is  easier  sending 
messages  or  birthday  presents,  or  things  of  that 
kind,  between  Stratford  and  Bristol  than  between 
Stratford  and  Shanghai.  But  the  great  difference 
is  this : my  uncle  Charles,  with  whom  you  would 
be  staying,  is  one  of  the  gentlest  and  kindest  of 
men,  whereas  my  uncle  in  China,  from  what  I 
can  remember  of  him,  is  one  of  the  most  fiery 
and  ill-tempered — a regular  pepper-caster.  You 
see,  both  the  mater  and  I have  grievously 
offended  him.  He  has  been  talking  for  ever 
so  long  back  of  retiring — he  has  made  a large 


ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!” 


167 


fortune ; and  he  has  always  been  anxious  that  I 
should  go  out  and  become  a junior  member  of 
the  firm : I suppose  he  could  make  that  one  of  his 
conditions.  Well,  you  know,  the  mater  wanted 
me  at  home;  and  besides,  I have  no  turn  for 
business;  and  at  home  I have  stayed.  I dare 
say  he  considers  us  a couple  of  fools.  But  if  I 
were  to  go  out  to  Shanghai,  and  if  he  were  to  dis- 
cover that  I hadn’t  come  with  any  intention  of 
studying  Pekoe  and  Souchong,  but  only  to  be 
kept  away  for  a while  from  a too  fascinating 
young  lady  in  Warwickshire,  then  there  would 
be  an  explosion!  I should  have  a remarkably 
lively  time  of  it  during  that  six  months ! Where- 
as you,  Nanciebel,  you  will  be  with  the  very 
nicest  people  you  could  wish  for ; and  they  will 
be  very  kind  to  you,  for  my  mother’s  sake;  and 
I will  write  to  you  every  day — that  is  to  say,  if  I 
am  only  allowed  to  send  you  one  letter  a week, 
that  can’t  prevent  my  writing  every  day,  and 
sending  you  the  whole  budget  on  Saturday.  Do 
you  see,  Nanciebel?  ” 

“Well,  I don’t  understand  yet,  Richard,”  said 
Nanciebel,  gazing  mournfully  at  the  green  river, 
with  its  slow-moving  patches  of  ice,  “ I don’t  un- 
derstand why  they  should  want  us  to  be  sepa- 
rated, unless  it  is  in  the  hope  of  the  separation 
being  forever.” 

“ How  can  you  say  that,  Nancy?  ” he  protested. 


i68 


NANCIEBEL 


“Why,  isn’t  it  on  the  distinct  understanding 
that  you  are  to  be  my  wife  that  the  mater  has 
made  this  proposal  and  that  my  uncle  asks  you 
to  make  his  house  your  home?  Would  they  take 
all  this  trouble  for  nothing?  Then  there’s  an- 
other thing,  Nanciebel.  If  I were  dealing  with 
a stern  and  truculent  parent,  threatening  and 
bullying,  I might  be  tempted  to  show  fight;  I 
should  probably  say,  'I  have  chosen  my  wife, 
and  stamping  and  roaring  won’t  alter  the  fact. 
You  say  you  will  cut  me  off  with  a shilling? — 
well,  go  and  do  it,  and  be  hanged  to  you ! ’ But, 
you  know,  Nancy,  you  couldn’t  use  language  like 
that  to  such  a gentle  creature  as  the  mater ; and 
as  for  cutting  me  off  with  a shilling,  no  one 
threatens  to  do  that,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
no  one  has  the  power:  when  I am  twenty-five, 
some  eighteen  months  hence,  I come  into  my 
little  money,  and  am  my  own  master.  So  that 
in  the  mean  time,  Nanciebel,  why  should  you 
grumble  over  our  being  separated  for  a while?  ” 
“It  seems  to  me,  Richard,”  said  Nanciebel, 
with  a pout,  “ that  you  take  this  separation  very 
easily.  I believe  you  are  glad  to  get  rid  of  me.” 
“Oh,  yes,  certainly,”  said  he,  sidling  closer  to 
her  as  they  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  bridge. 
“ That  is  extremely  probable.  Have  you  made 
any  other  discovery,  Nancy?  ” 

“Well,  how  would  you  like  it  yourself?  ” she 


ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!” 


169 


asked  abruptly.  “ How  would  you  like  to  be 
taken  away  from  your  own  family — as  if  they 
weren’t  good  enough  for  you  to  associate  with — 
and  sent  to  live  among  strangers?  ” 

“ If  you  mean  being  sent  to  live  at  Holiwell 
Vicarage,  I should  like  it  amazingly,”  said  he, 
with  a jovial  air.  “ My  cousins  are  awfully  nice 
girls — and  extremely  pretty,  too.  I shouldn’t 
object,  not  in  the  least!  ” 

She  moved  away  from  him,  and  remained  silent. 

“Come  now,  Nanciebel,”  he  said,  following 
her,  “don’t  be  sulky.  Tell  me  I may  say  to  my 
mother  that  you  will  consider  this  scheme,  and 
that  if  your  brother  has  no  objection,  you  will  do 
what  she  wants.” 

“ No,”  said  Nanciebel,  distinctly,  “ I refuse.  I 
am  not  going  to  tell  my  family  that  they  are  no 
longer  good  enough  for  me.  I refuse ; that  is 
my  answer.  You  can  go  down  to  Bristol,  if  you 
like ; if  you  prefer  your  cousins  to  me,  you  are 
welcome ! ” 

“I  never  said  anything  of  the  kind,”  he  ex- 
claimed. 

“You  did,  and  you  said  you  would  be  glad  to 
be  rid  of  me ” 

“ Nancy ! ” 

“It  is  mean  of  you — downright  mean  of  you,” 
she  said  in  indignant  tones,  “ to  deny  having  said 

certain  things  simply  because  you  did  not  use  such 
8 


70 


NANCIEBEL 


and  such  words.  What  you  intended  to  say  is 
quite  enough  for  me — thank  you ! And  I have 
had  enough — all  the  way  round.  I wish  to  have 
done  with  such  treatment — once  for  all.  I am 
going  home.” 

She  moved  proudly  away ; but  he  accompanied 
her.  Then  she  stood  stock-still. 

“ I wish  to  go  alone,”  she  said  with  firm  lips. 

“I  shan’t  allow  you,”  he  said  (not  dreaming 
there  was  anything  serious  in  the  wind).  “I 
know  better  than  you  what  is  good  for  you, 
Nancy;  I am  going  back  with  you.” 

She  remained  undecided  for  a moment — vexed 
and  mortified  and  helpless.  Then  she  said 
slowly  and  bitterly: 

“ I have  often  heard  that  one  may  be  born  in 
the  position  of  a gentleman  without  having  the 
manners  or  feelings  of  a gentleman,  but  I had 
never  seen  it  before.  I should  have  thought 
that  a gentleman  would  respect  my  wish.” 

“No,  no,  Nanciebel,”  said  he,  shaking  his 
head,  “ the  tragedy-queen  does  not  become  you. 
You’re  not  tall  enough,  not  fierce  enough.  Are 
you  going  to  give  me  your  hand?  ” 

An  implacable  determination  was  on  her 
mouth. 

“I  wish  to  pass,”  said  she  stiffly  (though  he 
was  not  barring  the  way  at  all).  “And  I wish 
to  go  back  home  alone.” 


“adieu,  my  dear!”  17 1 

Then  quick  as  flame  his  mood  changed. 

“ Oh,  go  home  alone,  then ! ” he  said  with 
frowning  brow;  and  the  next  moment  he  had 
turned  from  her  and  was  striding  eastward  along 
the  bridge,  leaving  Nanciebel  to  get  down  the 
slippery  steps  and  make  her  way  home  as  she 
pleased. 

As  for  him,  he  struck  off  through  the  snow- 
covered  meadows,  caring  little  whither  he  went, 
but  vowing  vengeance  all  the  time.  She  was  too 
unreasonable!  He  would  suffer  this  kind  of 
thing  no  longer.  Here  were  both  his  mother 
and  his  uncle  doing  everything  they  could  think 
of  for  her — not  spurning  her  and  refusing  to  re- 
ceive her  into  the  family,  as  many  would  have 
done,  but  laying  thoughtful  and  kindly  plans 
and  schemes  to  assure  her  a happy  future ; and 
she  must  needs  break  out  into  a fit  of  temper, 
and  flatly  decline  to  accept  their  good  offices.  It 
was  too  outrageously  unreasonable ! He  would 
teach  her  a lesson  this  time.  She  would  have  to 
come  humbly  to  him,  and  promise  amendment 
before  he  would  permit  of  any  reconciliation. 
Nanciebel  would  find  out  that  he  was  not  to  be 
trifled  with. 

Alas!  for  these  brave  resolutions;  the  first 
thing  he  saw  on  returning  to  Woodend  was  a 
small  packet  addressed  to  himself  lying  on  the 
hall  table.  He  opened  it — hurriedly  and  anx- 


172 


NANCIEBEL 


iously — for  he  had  recognized  the  handwriting. 
Here  were  a bundle  of  letters,  and  one  or  two 
tiny  packages  carefully  wrapped  up;  likewise 
the  following  note : 

“ Richard  : I return  you  your  letters,  and  also 
the  presents  you  have  given  me.  Good-by. 

41  Nancy.” 

He  stared  in  alarm  and  bewilderment.  Did 
she  mean  it?  Had  she  taken  mortal  offence  be- 
cause of  the  imagined  slight  to  her  family — a 
slight  that  he  ought  to  have  explained  aw^ay? 
Perhaps  she  had  consulted  her  elder  brother  be- 
fore taking  this  serious  step ! And  then  (with  a 
jump  of  the  heart)  he  observed  that  before  the 
word  “ letters  ” in  the  above  note  she  had  originally 
written  “ dear”  but  had  scored  that  out.  The 
obliteration  had  been  done  but  lightly ; perhaps 
she  had  meant  him  to  see  the  little  adjective  after 
all?  He  was  not  so  angry  with  Nanciebel  now. 
It  was  her  love  that  had  dictated  that  little  word 
of  four  letters,  if  it  was  her  pride  that  had  com- 
pelled her  to  score  it  out  again. 

Toward  dusk  on  the  same  afternoon,  Mr. 
Richard  again  made  his  appearance  in  the  High 
Street.  Nanciebel  blushed  furiously  when  he 
entered  the  shop ; there  was  a curious  look  in  her 
eyes,  moreover ; his  heart  smote  him — he  guessed 
she  had  been  crying. 


“adieu,  my  dear!” 


1 73 


“I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Nancy,”  he  said,  in  a 
grave  voice. 

Her  sister  Kate  was  behind  the  counter,  busy 
with  her  needle;  so,  without  more  ado,  Nancy 
drew  a shawl  round  her  shoulders,  and  passed 
into  the  back  garden,  leaving  the  door  open.  He 
was  at  her  side  in  a second. 

“ Will  you  take  back  the  letters,  Nancy?  ” said 
he  rather  hesitatingly,  for  he  knew  not  in  what 
mood  she  might  be.  “You  cannot  mean  what 
you  say.  It  isn’t  all  over  between  us  because — 
because  of  a quarrel.  And  I’m  sure  I had  no 
intention  of  saying  or  hinting  that  your  family 
were  not  good  enough  for  you  to  associate  with — 
no  such  intention  in  the  world.” 

“O  Richard,”  she  suddenly  said  in  a voice 
full  of  pathetic  appeal,  “ do  be  good  to  me ! It 
quite  breaks  my  heart  when  there  is  anything 
wrong  between  you  and  me ! I will  do  what  you 
want.  I will  do  everything  your  mother  wishes, 
only — only — be  kind  to  me,  Richard!  ” 

The  next  instant  his  hands  were  clasped  round 
her  soft  dark  hair ; her  eyes  were  upturned  to  his. 

“Why  aren’t  you  always  like  this,  Nancy?” 
he  said. 

“Because  you  won’t  let  me,”  she  said  plain- 
tively. “ But  don’t  begin  again,  Richard ! Have 
you — have  you  brought  the  letters — and  the 
locket  and  the  other  things?  ” 


i74 


NANCIEBEL 


He  took  the  little  package  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  her ; she  furtively  kissed  it  ere  trans- 
ferring it  to  her  own. 

“So  you  will  go  to  Bristol,  Nanciebel?  ” 

“Yes,  dear!  ” she  said,  looking  down  again. 

“ And  do  you  imagine  I don’t  understand  what 
you  are  thinking — or  dreading?  And  of  course 
I sympathize  with  you  all  the  same,  even  if  I 
know  your  fears  are  groundless.  Why,  they 
will  be  as  kind  to  you  as  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
wish!  It  isn’t  as  if  you  were  going  as  a gov- 
erness into  a strange  house  where  the  daughters 
might  bully  you,  and  the  servants  try  to  snub  you ; 
you  are  are  going  to  a home — to  be  received  as 
my  future  wife ; and  the  chief  points  of  education 
that  the  mater  seems  to  have  in  view  are  lawn- 
tennis  and  the  way  of  dressing  your  hair — though 
I fancy  you  could  give  Gerty  and  Laura  a lesson 
in  that,  rather  than  they  you.  It  seems  to  me 
that  it  will  be  simply  a holiday  for  you — a long 
holiday ” 

“Yes,  Richard,  long — how  long?”  she  inter- 
posed. 

“ They  were  talking  about  a year,  ” he  answered 
evasively. 

“Ah,  well,”  she  responded,  with  a submissive 
sigh,  “ I suppose  if  I have  promised  to  do  every- 
thing your  mother  wishes,  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said.  But  it  will  be  dreadful,  Richard — never 


ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!” 


*75 


seeing  you.  I shall  lose  heart,  I know.  I have 
heard  of  people  pining  and  moping  until  they  fell 
into  an  illness;  well,  if  that  should  happen  to 
me,  perhaps  I shall  not  be  sorry.  I have  only 
been  in  the  way — and  a cause  of  trouble.  But  if 
anything  were  to  happen  to  me — when  I was  far 
from  my  friends,  and  from  you,  and  from  any 
one  I cared  for,  I should  have  the  consolation  of 
knowing  that  I had  done  everything  that  had 
been  asked  of  me;  and  I suppose  your  mother 
and  your  uncle  would  have  no  ill  feeling  toward 
me  then;  and  you  — you  wouldn’t  quite  for- 
get Nanciebel  — sometimes  you  would  remem- 
ber  ” 

There  was  a sob  in  the  dark. 

“Come,  come,  Nancy,”  said  he  soothingly, 
“you  needn’t  have  any  such  apprehensions. 
And  you  are  not  going  to  be  left  alone  like  that. 
I shall  stipulate  for  being  allowed  to  go  down 
and  see  you  once  at  least  in  every  two  months — 
they  talked  of  three  months* — — ” 

“Couldn’t  it  be  every  month,  Richard?”  she 
pleaded. 

“ Nanciebel,”  said  he,  “you’d  begin  to  think 
me  a nuisance.  Why,  you’ll  be  so  busy  with 
your  amusements  and  excursions  and  all  the 
charitable  work  connected  with  the  vicarage  that 
you’d  resent  my  coming  bothering  you  so  often. 
However,  that  can  all  be  arranged  afterward. 


176 


NANCIEBEL 


You  will  find  the  mater  most  considerate;  she 
will  agree  to  anything  you  ask;  and  don’t 
imagine  you  are  going  to  banishment  or  impris- 
onment— but  to  have  a long  and  pleasant  holi- 
day, in  a nice  house,  among  the  most  friendly 
people  in  the  world.” 

That  night  at  dinner  Mr.  Richard  informed 
his  mother  and  his  uncle  that  Miss  Marlow  had 
given  her  consent  to  the  scheme  which  had  been 
placed  before  her,  and  pathetically  tried  to  draw 
from  them  some  expression  of  sympathy  or  ap- 
proval. But  the  widow  received  the  news  with 
a grave  reserve ; perhaps  in  her  secret  heart  she 
had  been  wondering  whether  Nanciebel  might 
not  definitely  refuse  and  so  prepare  the  way  for 
a rupture  of  the  engagement. 

“ I hope  it  will  all  turn  out  well,  Richard,”  the 
mild- voiced  clergyman  said,  “ and  I am  sure  my- 
self and  the  girls  will  do  what  we  can  to  make 
the  young  lady  feel  at  home.  We  must  simply 
agree  to  regard  her  as  already  one  of  the  family. 
But  sometimes  I wonder  what  your  uncle  Alex- 
ander will  say  when  he  comes  to  hear  of  it.” 

“ My  uncle  Alexander,”  said  Mr.  Richard,  with 
some  independence,  “seems  to  think  he  owns 
me,  simply  because  he  happens  to  have  been  my 
father’s  brother.  But  I do  not  see  that  I am  so 
much  beholden  to  him.  I hardly  know  him,  to 
begin  with ; and  he  has  done  nothing  for  me — ex- 


177 


“adieu,  my  dear!” 

cept  to  make  offers  he  must  have  known  I could 
not  accept ” 

“ He  might  do  a great  deal  for  you,”  the  widow 

said.  “ He  has  made  a large  fortune ” 

“Yes,  but  of  course  he’ll  leave  it  all  to  tha+ 
girl,  his  step-daughter.  She  is  the  only  one  whc 
has  any  claim  on  him — I don’t  consider  I should 

look  to  him  for  anything ” 

“Well,  you  needn’t,”  his  mother  said  sadly, 
“after  he  hears  of  what  has  now  taken  place.” 
“What  I look  to  him  for,”  said  Mr.  Richard 
with  some  firmness  (for  well  he  knew  what  view 
the  irascible  old  gentleman  out  in  Shanghai 
would  take  of  this  matter) , “ is  to  mind  his  own 
affairs,  and  not  interfere  where  he  is  not  wanted. 
He  writes  about  me,”  he  continued,  addressing 
his  uncle,  “as  if  I were  a child,  and  as  if  the 
mater  were  a nursery-governess  neglecting  her 
duty.  Well,  I won’t  have  it.  He  hasn’t  ac- 
quired the  right  to  intermeddle ” 

“ He  has  been  most  kind  and  thoughtful,”  Mrs. 
Kingston  pleaded.  “ If  his  remonstrances  were 
sometimes  couched  in  plain  language,  surely,  my 
dear  boy,  you  must  have  known  what  his  inten- 
tions were.  Again  and  again  he  has  offered  to 
give  you  a place  in  the  firm ; and  if  I have  been 
selfish  enough  to  ask  you  to  relinquish  these 
chances,  and  to  stay  at  home  with  me,  it  hasn’t 
been  always  with  a good  conscience.” 

8* 


i7» 


NANCIEBEL 


“Well,  well,  mother,”  her  son  replied,  “it  is 
no  use  talking  about  that  now.  I am  not  going 
out  to  Shanghai.  And  I don’t  want  any  of  Uncle 
Alexander’s  money;  let  it  go  to  my  cousin  who 
is  not  my  cousin — Florence  her  name  is,  isn’t 
it?” 

Now  the  Rev.  Mr.  Henningham  had  to  return 
to  Bristol  the  next  day ; but  it  was  hardly  to  be 
expected  that  Nanciebel  could  accompany  him 
on  such  short  notice.  She  would  wish  to  say 
good-by  to  her  friends  and  relatives ; moreover, 
her  wardrobe  might  require  looking  after,  seeing 
that  she  was  to  be  away  for  so  long ; and  Mrs. 
Kingston  undertook  that  the  young  lady  should 
arrive  at  Holiwell  Vicarage  fully  equipped. 
Nanciebel  had  again  been  persuaded  to  pay  an 
afternoon  visit  to  Woodend;  and  although  she 
was  quite  as  shy  and  nearly  as  silent  as  on  the 
previous  occasion,  nevertheless  her  neat  appear- 
ance and  becoming  modesty  made  a favorable 
impression  on  the  clergyman,  while  Mrs.  King- 
ston, now  fully  recognizing  the  course  of  events 
as  inevitable,  made  less  constrained  advances 
toward  friendliness  and  intimacy.  Mr.  Richard 
seemed  highly  pleased  with  the  result  of  this 
interview.  It  all  seemed  settled  now.  And 
Nancy  no  longer  appeared  to  be  afraid.  That 
period  of  banishment  was  not  to  be  so  dreadful, 
after  all. 


“adieu,  my  dear!”  179 

In  the  mean  time  Uncle  Charles  had  nobly  un- 
dertaken the  duty  of  calling-  upon  Nanciebel’s 
elder  brother,  in  order  to  explain  to  him  the 
position  of  affairs,  and  what  were  their  plans  for 
the  future.  It  was  a most  delicate  and  invidious 
task.  For  when  two  young  people  become  en- 
gaged, their  friends  and  acquaintances — and  even 
the  world  at  large — charitably  and  amiably  as- 
sume that  the  young  lady  has  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  bringing  about  this  result ; it  is 
the  young  man  who  is  solely  and  wholly  respon- 
sible. Accordingly  the  question  remained  as  to 
how  NanciebeFs  brother  would  regard  this  spirit- 
ing away  of  his  sister.  Doubtless  he  would  as- 
sume that  she  was  innocent  of  any  preliminary 
flirtation ; she  had  not  replied  to  stolen  glances, 
or  let  her  hand  part  reluctantly  from  his,  or  in- 
dulged in  any  sort  of  sly  and  innocent  coquetry. 
No,  no.  She  had  been  pursued  with  attentions ; 
flattered;  coaxed;  finally,  out  of  her  generous 
good-nature,  she  had  given  consent — to  the 
young  man  who  was  now  answerable  for  the 
whole  affair.  As  the  good  clergyman  made  his 
way  to  the  shop  of  Emmet  & Marlow,  watch- 
makers and  silversmiths,  he  became  a little  anx- 
ious. If  young  Marlow  had  taken  that  sta- 
tioner’s business  chiefly  as  a means  of  providing 
employment  for  his  sisters,  he  might  be  willing 
enough  to  have  the  maintenance  of  one  of  the 


i8o 


NANCIEBEL 


girls  taken  off  liis  hands.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
he  had  embarked  in  the  enterprise  as  a specula- 
tion on  his  own  account,  he  might  object  to  have 
his  manageress  carried  off  in  this  peremptory 
fashion.  Much  would  depend  on  his  personal 
disposition ; and  Mr.  Henningham,  who  was  a 
peaceable  and  timid  little  man,  hoped  at  least 
that  young  Marlow  would  not  turn  out  to  be 
a fierce  and  angry  Radical,  indignant  at  the 
thought  of  his  sister  being  borne  away  into  cap- 
tivity in  order  to  become  the  bride  of  a scion  of 
the  so-called  upper  classes. 

Mr.  Henningham  was  speedily  reassured.  Nan- 
ciebel’s  brother  he  found  to  be  a respectable, 
quiet-mannered,  sensible  young  man,  who  spoke 
wtih  equal  intelligence  and  frankness. 

“No,  sir,”  he  said  respectfully  to  the  clergy- 
man, “ I did  not  like  your  nephew  coming  about 
the  place  at  all.  I would  have  stopped  it  if  I had 
known  in  time.  I think  Nancy  ought  to  marry 
in  her  own  circle.  However,  I suppose  it  is  no 
use  talking  about  that  now.  Well,  I think  your 
proposal  is  very  generous ; and  I see  good  reasons 
for  it ; the  only  thing  is  that  you  must  allow  me 
to  pay  for  my  sister’s  board.” 

“ My  dear  sir,”  said  the  clergyman  blandly,  “I 
hope  you  will  not  raise  the  question.  I think  both 
Mrs.  Kingston  and  myself  would  prefer  to  regard 
your  sister  as  already  one  of  the  family ” 


ADIEU,  MY  DEAR!” 


181 


The  young  man  flushed. 

“Oh,  I can’t  have  Nancy  go  anywhere  as  a 
beggar,”  said  he,  but  without  rudeness.  “Once 
she  is  married  it  will  be  different.” 

“We  will  waive  the  point  at  present,  then,” 
said  Mr.  Henningham,who  was  extremely  pleased 
to  have  got  over  this  awkward  interview  so 
easily ; and,  as  he  was  going  away,  he  was  good 
enough  to  say : “ And,  of  course,  you  understand 
that  while  we  consider  this  period  of  separation 
a wholesome  thing  as  between  those  young  peo- 
ple, we  have  no  wish  to  restrict  Miss  Marlow’s 
full  and  free  intercourse  with  her  own  relatives ; 
and  if  her  sister  or  yourself  were  at  any  time  any- 
where near  Bristol,  I should  be  only  too  pleased 
to  see  you  at  Holiwell  Vicarage.” 

Uncle  Charles  went  away  down  again  into 
Somersetshire  to  tell  his  daughters  whom  they 
were  to  expect.  Then  a week  or  two  went  by, 
during  which  Nanciebel  was  preparing  for  her 
departure.  Then  came  the  night  of  farewell  (for 
she  was  going  off  by  train  next  morning) , and 
Nancy  and  her  lover  were,  as  on  many  a previous 
occasion,  strolling  arm-in-arm  up  and  down  the 
little  tiled  court-yard. 

“ Life  is  so  much  harder  in  reality,”  Nanciebel 
was  saying  in  a rather  sad  way,  “ than  it  is  in 
things  you  read  of  in  books.  I thought  it  was 
kind  of  your  mother  to  give  me  Tennyson’s 


182 


NANCIEBEL 


Poems  yesterday,  Richard.  She  told  me  how  it 
was  you  asked  for  her  consent;  and  how  she 
couldn’t  refuse;  and  when  I came  home,  I read 
the  poem  all  over  again.  But  everything  went 
so  easily  for  the  Miller’s  Daughter.  A single 
interview  with  the  young  man’s  mother:  that 
was  all.  There  was  no  talk  of  sending  her  away 
from  her  friends — to  live  with  strangers — per- 
haps for  a whole  year.  You  say  they  are  not 
strangers,  Richard,  dear;  and,  of  course,  they  are 
not  to  you,  but  they  are  to  me.  And  the  life 
will  be  strange.  I know  I shall  feel  dreadfully 

lonely.  I shall  spend  half  the  night  crying ” 

“No,  no,  no,  Nanciebel!”  he  said.  “You 
don’t  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  It  will 
be  a far  pleasanter  life  for  you  than  your  present 


“Without  you,  Richard!”  she  said  reproach- 
fully. 

“I  am  talking  of  the  average  circumstances,” 
said  he — perhaps  conscious  that  he  was  an  ex- 
ceptional one.  “You  will  have  all  the  fun  that 
my  cousins  have,  with  nothing  of  their  hard 
drill.  While  they  are  grinding  away  at  Latin 
and  French  and  German,  you  will  have  nothing 
but  English  literature  to  get  up ; and  while  they 
are  hammering  at  fugues  and  sonatas,  you  will 
only  have  to  practise  your  handwriting — and 
you  can  do  that  by  writing  to  me.  There  will 


“adieu,  my  dear!”  183 

be  no  lawn-tennis  as  yet,  of  course ; but  you  can 
play  battledore-and-shuttlecock  in  the  hall ; and 
you  will  be  expected  to  take  part  in  entertain- 
ments for  the  instruction  and  amusement  of  the 
villagers — and  won’t  that  develop  your  self-con- 
fidence, Nanciebel ! ” 

“ I am  sure  Bristol  must  be  a dreadful  place  to 
live  in,”  said  Nancy  with  a sigh. 

“ Why,  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  towns  in 
England ! ” he  protested.  “ Of  course  you  will 
be  living  a little  way  out  in  the  country;  but 
wait  till  I come  to  see  you ; I will  take  you  into 
the  town,  and  show  you  the  College  Green  and 
the  Whiteladies’  Road,  and  Durdham  Down,  and 
Clifton  Down,  and  the  Suspension  Bridge,  and 
the  steep  banks  of  the  Avon  all  hanging  in  foli- 
age. Why,  it  is  a beautiful  neighborhood — not 
flat  and  tame  like  this,  but  with  plenty  of  heights 
and  cliffs  and  open  spaces  covered  with  hawthorn 
in  the  spring.  Oh,  I can  tell  you,  Bristol  is  a 
most  picturesque  place ! ” 

“What  do  I care  about  that?  ” said  Nanciebel, 
as  if  in  echo  of  “ What’s  this  dull  town  to  me?  ” 
And  then  she  continued,  “ Richard,  I have  got  a 
little  pocket  almanac,  and  I am  going  to  mark 
with  red  ink  all  the  dates  fixed  for  your  coming 
to  Bristol ; and  every  night,  before  going  to  bed, 
I will  score  out  the  day  that  has  passed,  and  say, 
‘There’s  another  day  of  misery  got  over.’  ” 


NANCIEBEL 


“ And  mind  this,  Nancy,”  he  said,  “though we 
have  promised  to  send  each  other  a letter  only 
once  a fortnight,  that  does  not  prevent  you  writ- 
ing every  day  in  the  week,  and  keeping  the 
sheets  until  the  proper  time  has  come.  I’m  sure 
I mean  to  do  that ; as  I told  you  before,  it  will 
be  a kind  of  diary ; and  you  must  tell  me  every- 
thing you  are  thinking,  so  that  I may  be  certain 
I know  exactly  the  truth.  Oh,  I don’t  say  you 
may  not  find  it  a little  lonely  at  first;  you  will 
be  thinking  of  the  pleasant  evenings  we  have 
spent  here,  or  the  morning  strolls  out  to  the 
Weir  Brake;  but  then,  dearest,  think  of  the 
necessity  for  the  absence,  and  of  all  the  greater 
happiness  in  store  for  us.  There  are  very  few 
engaged  young  people  who  have  everything 
planned  out  so  satisfactorily  for  them — friends 
approving — all  the  circumstances  propitious — 
and  what  is  a little  waiting?  ” 

“Ah,  it’s  all  very  well  for  you,  Richard,”  she 
said ; “ you  are  a man ; and  you  are  high-spirited 
and  careless.  But  I shall  feel  so  lonely — and — 
and  there  will  be  nobody  to  be  good  to  me,”  con- 
fessed Nanciebel  artlessly. 

“ You  wait  till  I come  down,”  said  he,  “ and  see 
if  I don’t  make  up  for  lost  time.” 

And  still  more  sad  of  heart  was  poor  Nancy 
at  the  station  on  the  following  morning.  She 
hardly  spoke.  Mr.  Richard  got  her  a coupt,  and 


NEW  FRIENDS 


185 

bribed  the  guard  to  keep  it  for  her ; she  did  not 
seem  to  care.  Her  elder  brother  was  here  to  see 
her  away,  but  he  did  not  pay  much  attention  to 
his  sister ; there  were  one  or  two  acquaintances  of 
his  on  the  platform ; and  there  was  a parliamen- 
tary election  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
that  seemed  to  interest  them.  As  the  time  drew 
near,  Nanciebel  grew  more  and  more  dejected. 
She  answered  her  lover’s  remarks  in  mono- 
syllables chiefly,  for  her  lips  were  tremulous,  and 
she  dared  not  trust  herself.  At  last  she  had  to 
get  into  the  carriage.  He  kissed  her;  she  took 
leave  of  him  without  a word — only  pressing  his 
hand ; and  the  last  he  saw  of  her  were  her  tear- 
filled  eyes  piteously  and  longingly  regarding 
him.  Then — long  after  the  train  had  left  the 
station — there  was  a flutter  of  a small  white 
handkerchief  from  a carriage  window ; and  that 
again  disappeared  at  a curve  in  the  line;  Nancie- 
bel was  gone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

NEW  FRIENDS 

For  Mr.  Richard,  Stratford-on-Avon  was  an 
empty  town  after  the  departure  of  Nanciebel. 
He  used  to  wander  all  round  the  neighborhood : 


i86 


NANCIEBEL 


through  the  meadows,  down  by  the  river,  or 
along  to  the  Weir  Brake;  or  again  he  would  go 
away  up  to  the  top  of  Bardon  Hill,  and  survey 
the  wide  landscape,  identifying  almost  every 
feature  of  it  with  some  recollection  of  his  lost 
Nancy.  Here  was  a lane  in  which  she  had  made 
shy  confession  of  her  love,  and  sworn  sweet  vows 
of  constancy  until  death ; yonder  was  the  high- 
way in  which,  not  a fortnight  thereafter,  they 
had  had  a furious  quarrel;  and  still  further 
along  the  point  at  which  she  had  become  sud- 
denly penitent  and  had  wept  mild  tears  of  con- 
trition. He  even  went  into  the  little  shop  in 
the  High  Street  and  begged  Miss  Kate  Marlow 
to  allow  him  to  visit,  in  solitude  and  silence,  the 
vacant  little  court-yard  in  which  Nanciebel  and 
he  had  conjured  up  so  many  fair  dreams  and 
visions  of  the  future.  Sister  Kate  was  sympa- 
thetic and  understood ; she  left  him  to  himself, 
and  gave  him  ample  opportunity  to  become  as 
miserable  as  he  wished.  But  one  afternoon  Miss 
Kate  had  a more  definite  favor  to  bestow  on 
him. 

“I  had  a letter  from  Nancy  this  morning,”  she 
said,  at  the  door  of  the  shop.  “ I was  wonder- 
ing she  did  not  write ; but  she  said  she  waited 
until  she  got  settled.  Would  you  like  to  see  it?  ” 

“Oh,  yes!”  said  he  eagerly,  “for  she  won’t 
write  to  me  until  the  end  of  next  week.  Of 


NEW  FRIENDS  187 

course,  I am  anxious  to  know  how  she  takes  to 
the  place.” 

Therewith  he  followed  Nanciebel’s  sister  in- 
side, and  she  went  and  got  the  letter.  It  was  a 
long  and  elaborate  composition,  showing  care  as 
regards  the  handwriting;  no  doubt  Nancy  was 
already  practising.  But  it  was  the  contents  that 
interested  Mr.  Richard — and  surprised  him.  He 
expected  that  Nanciebel  would  be  complaining 
of  her  sad  fortune;  pining  for  absent  friends; 
recalling  the  pleasant  hours  she  had  passed  with 
those  she  loved  most ; and  wondering  when  her 
period  of  lone  banishment  was  to  be  over.  Noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  In  this  letter  Nancy  seemed 
rather  to  be  giving  herself  airs.  Her  sister  was 
told  of  all  the  elegancies  of  life  at  the  vicarage, 
even  to  the  ringing  of  a dressing-bell  before 
dinner ; and  was  given  to  understand  that  Nancy 
was  put  in  a position  of  perfect  equality  with  the 
vicar's  daughters,  and  even  treated  with  consid- 
eration and  respect  by  the  lady-housekeeper — a 
somewhat  awful  person,  as  it  appeared — who 
presided  over  the  establishment.  Mention  was 
made  of  the  Stanhope  phaeton  which  had  awaited 
her  at  the  station.  The  garden  of  the  vicarage 
communicated  with  that  of  Holiwell  Court  (Hon. 
G.  Stapleton,  brother  of  Lord  De  Vaux  and  Esk)  ; 
and  as  the  vicar’s  family  had  the  free  run  of  the 
place,  Nancy,  when  the  two  young  ladies  were  at 


NANCIEBEL 


1 88 

their  morning  tasks,  would  sometimes  wander 
into  the  hot-houses,  where  the  Scotch  head  gar- 
dener told  her  the  Latin  names  of  the  plants, 
and  otherwise  introduced  her  to  the  science  of 
botany.  And  so  Mr.  Richard  read  on,  momen- 
tarily expecting  some  reference  to  himself,  but 
finding  no  such  thing.  He  handed  back  those 
closely  scribbled  sheets,  and  thanked  Miss  Kate. 
Then  he  walked  away  home  rather  dispirited. 

But  a very  different  letter  arrived  at  Woodend 
toward  the  close  of  the  following  week.  There 
was  no  showing  off  or  pride  of  place,  but  the  out- 
pourings and  tender  confidences  of  an  innocent 
young  soul,  that  might  have  melted  a heart  of 
stone.  Oh,  for  the  happy  days,  never  to  be  re- 
called, which  she  had  passed  with  her  dear 
Richard  in  that  beloved  Stratford  town!  Here 
she  was  all  alone,  far,  far  from  friends,  with  no 
one  to  cheer  her  or  comfort  her,  with  the  future 
all  grown  dark  and  hopeless.  The  night  brought 
wakeful  hours  of  memory,  and  weeping  over  by- 
gone happiness;  the  morning  brought  with  it  a 
renewed  sense  of  isolation.  A moan  as  of  a dove 
deprived  of  its  mate  went  all  through  this  letter ; 
and  even  while  the  young  man  prized  and  wel- 
comed eagerly  these  artless  confessions,  his  heart 
was  stricken  with  sympathy  and  pity.  Poor 
Nancy!  Even  the  Stanhope  phaeton,  and  the 
dressing-bell  before  dinner,  and  the  Hon.  Mr. 


NEW  FRIENDS 


189 


Stapleton’s  greenhouses,  and  the  Scoto-Latin 
names  of  flowers,  seemed  not  altogether  to  com- 
pensate. She  still  thought  of  her  dear  Richard, 
and  of  drowsy  Stratford  town,  and  the  silent- 
winding  Avon. 

But  the  drowsiness  of  Warwickshire,  so  far  as 
Mrs.  Kingston  and  her  son  were  concerned,  was 
about  to  be  broken  in  upon  in  a sudden  and 
startling  manner.  Quite  unexpectedly,  without 
any  warning,  the  news  arrived  that  Richard’s 
uncle  out  in  China  had  at  last  accomplished  the 
end  he  had  long  had  in  view — his  retirement 
from  the  immediate  direction  of  the  firm  of 
Kingston,  Campbell  & Co.,  of  Shanghai,  and 
that  he  and  his  step-daughter  would  almost 
immediately  start  for  Europe.  There  were  some 
further  details  in  the  letter.  Uncle  Alexander 
meant  to  set  up  house  in  London,  after  he  had 
had  time  to  look  about;  but,  in  the  mean  while, 
on  his  arrival,  there  would  be  a good  deal  of 
legal  business  to  attend  to,  and  he  would  take  it 
as  a kindness  if  his  sister-in-law,  for  that  brief 
period,  would  receive  into  her  house  his  step- 
daughter Florence.  Now,  Mrs.  Kingston  had 
never  even  seen  this  young  lady,  who  was  a 
daughter,  by  a former  husband,  of  Uncle  Alexan- 
der’s second  and  recently  deceased  wife.  But 
the  little  widow  never  thought  of  evading  this 
demand  made  upon  her  by  her  imperious  and 


190 


NANCIEBEL 


hot-tempered  brother-in-law.  It  was  not  the  as- 
pect of  this  surprising  intelligence  which  filled 
Mrs.  Kingston’s  breast  with  concern. 

“Richard,”  she  said,  going  to  her  son  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand,  “ your  uncle  Alexander  and 
his  daughter  are  coming  to  England ; and  he  is 
going  to  bring  her  down  here  to  stay  with  us  a 
little  while,  until  he  gets  some  business  over  in 
London.  And — and  I suppose  there  will  be  a 
general  talk  over  family  affairs,”  continued  the 
anxious  mother,  “and — and  I suppose  I shall 

have  to  tell  him  about  Miss — about  Nancy ” 

Mr.  Richard’s  face  flushed  quickly. 

“ I’ve  said  before,  mother,  that  I expect  Uncle 
Alexander  to  mind  his  own  affairs,”  he  remarked 
in  ominous  tones.  “ I am  indebted  to  him  in  no 
way,  and  I don’t  mean  to  be.  Did  I ever  ask 
him  for  any  of  his  money?  Who  constituted 
him  my  guardian?  ” 

“ I am  sure  that  your  uncle  Charles  and  I did 
what  was  right  about — about  Nancy,”  said  the 
widow  (who  seemed  always  to  have  a little  strug- 
gle in  calling  Miss  Marlow  by  her  Christian 
name) , “ but  I know  all  the  same  that  your  uncle 
Alexander  will  be  very  angry — and  you  know 

how  stormy  and  passionate  he  is ” 

“Look  here,  mother,”  Mr.  Richard  said  defi- 
nitely, “ I want  you  to  understand  this : I am  not 
going  to  allow  Uncle  Alexander  to  worry  you 


NEW  FRIENDS 


I9I 

about  Nancy,  or  upon  any  other  subject.  If  he 
has  anything  to  say,  let  him  say  it  to  me,  and 
he  shall  have  his  answer.  But  if  I find  him  be- 
ginning to  bully  you,  I shall  show  him  the  way  to 
the  door.  I suppose  you  may  live  all  your  life  in 
China  and  yet  not  have  forgotten  how  to  take  a 
hint.” 

Alas!  when  Uncle  Alexander  arrived  at  Wood- 
end — accompanied  by  a tall,  and  handsome,  and 
bright-looking  young  lady,  who  appeared  to  take 
possession  of  the  whole  house  in  a bewildering 
sort  of  way — he  was  in  no  truculent  mood.  He 
was  a complete  wreck,  he  declared.  The  long 
voyage  had  shattered  him;  the  rattling  across 
France  had  still  further  destroyed  his  nerves; 
his  consolation  now  was  that  he  could  lay  his 
bones  to  rest  in  his  native  land.  It  is  true  that 
as  Mr.  Richard  watched  the  performance  of  this 
big,  heavy,  bilious-complexioned  man  at  lunch- 
eon, he  was  of  opinion  that,  for  a moribund  per- 
son, he  possessed  a remarkably  brave  appetite. 
His  harrowing  description  of  the  sensations  he 
suffered  during  the  wakeful  hours  of  night  did 
not  interfere  with  his  large  consumption  of  steak 
and  kidney  pie ; and  by  the  time  that  cheese  and 
celery  were  produced  he  had  got  through  the  best 
part  of  a decanter  of  old  Madeira.  He  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  silent,  however,  as  the 
repast  proceeded;  and  when  all  rose  from  table, 


192 


NANCIEBEL 


he  said  he  would  retire  to  his  own  room  and  lie 
down  for  a while,  as  he  found  that  a nap  after 
lunch  had  a soothing  effect  on  his  nervous 
system. 

And  here  were  mother  and  son  with  this 
strange  young  lady  left  on  their  hands.  But  the 
strange  young  lady  was  in  no  wise  disconcerted. 

“Well,  cousin,”  she  said  gayly,  as  she  turned 
to  Mr.  Richard,  “are  you  coming  to  show  me 
over  the  curiosities  of  Stratford?  I suppose  I 
may  call  myself  an  Englishwoman ; and  an  Eng- 
lishwoman ought  to  know  something  of  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  How  far  is  it  in  to  the  town?  ” 

“A  little  over  a couple  of  miles,”  said  he; 
“but  I will  drive  you  in,  if  you  like.” 

“Oh,  thanks;  that  will  be  capital,”  said  she. 
“You  can  tell  me  when  the  carriage  is  ready;  I 
shall  be  in  the  drawing-room  with  Aunt  Cecilia.” 
And  therewith  she  quite  naturally  and  affection- 
ately put  her  hand  within  the  widow’s  arm  and 
led  her  away  with  her. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  thereafter,  Mr. 
Richard  found  himself  seated  next  this  light- 
hearted cousin  of  his,  who  had  begged  him  to 
give  her  the  reins.  It  was  a pleasant  after- 
noon ; the  snow  had  altogether  disappeared  from 
the  country-side  now ; there  were  mild  airs  blow- 
ing, and  a touch  of  sunlight  here  and  there ; a 
feeling  of  spring  was  abroad. 


NEW  FRIENDS 


193 


“ I am  awfully  fond  of  driving,”  said  she ; “ and 
driving  through  an  English  landscape  in  the 
spring-time — what  can  be  better  than  that?  ” 

“I’ll  have  the  pony-chaise  brought  round  for 
you  every  morning  if  you  like,  Miss  Kingston,” 
he  remarked. 

“ Miss  Kingston ! ” she  exclaimed,  wuth  an  au- 
dacious smile.  “Well,  well!  Why,  my  name 
is  Floss;  and  I am  your  cousin;  can’t  you  put 
these  two  together,  and  give  me  a nicer  name 
than  Miss  Kingston?  I am  going  to  call  you 
Cousin  Dick.  You  see,”  she  continued,  giving 
the  reins  a shake  to  wake  up  the  old  pony,  “ girls 
are  subjected  to  such  formalities  and  convention- 
alisms in  ordinarily  talking  to  gentlemen  that, 
where  there  is  a chance  of  a little  familiarity, 
it  is  quite  delightful.  Cousin  Dick  sounds  all 
right,  doesn’t  it?  ” 

“Y — yes,”  said  he:  he  was  thinking  of  poor 
little  Nanciebel  and  her  shy  ways ; and  he  was 
hoping  that  Kate  Marlow  might  not  see  him  and 
this  dashing  cousin  of  his  if  they  had  occasion 
to  drive  along  the  High  Street. 

When  they  got  into  Stratford,  however,  he  put 
up  the  horse  and  trap  at  the  stables  belonging  to 
a hotel  where  he  was  known ; and  thereafter  they 
continued  their  peregrinations  on  foot.  But  first 
of  all  Cousin  Floss  paused  at  a milliner’s  window 
and  looked  in. 

9 


194 


NANCIEBEL 


“ Will  you  wait  for  me,”  said  she,  “or  come  in 
and  sit  down?  I’m  going  to  buy  some  little 
things  for  your  mother,  to  break  up  the  unrelieved 
black  of  her  mourning.  Why,  it  isn’t  at  all 
called  for;  and  it  is  the  greater  pity  in  her  case, 
for  she  is  comparatively  a young  woman  and  very 
nice-looking,  and  why  should  she  wear  nothing 
but  black?  Of  course,  a widow  will  protest,  and 
may  even  think  you  cruel ; but  you  have  only  to 
talk  a little  common  sense,  and  be  firm;  and 
you’ll  see  if  I don’t  get  something  that  will  im- 
prove Aunt  Cecilia’s  appearance.” 

She  made  her  purchases,  and  sent  them  to  the 
hotel;  then  he  took  her  along  to  New  Place,  and 
showed  her  the  site  of  Shakespeare’s  house;  and 
again  he  conducted  her  to  the  church,  to  the 
shrine  which  so  many  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of 
the  world  have  visited.  She  betrayed  the  most 
lively  interest  in  everything  he  showed  her,  and 
talked  with  an  unfailing  cheerfulness  and  frank- 
ness. At  first,  in  fact,  on  setting  out  with  this 
newly  found  cousin,  he  had  been  rather  taken 
aback ; her  matter-of-fact  audacity  had  somewhat 
disconcerted  him ; but  now  he  had  grown  familiar 
with  her  fashion  of  addressing  him  just  as  if  he 
were  her  elder  brother. 

“ Oh,  my  goodness ! ” she  exclaimed,  when  he 
showed  her  the  Memorial  Theatre — that  fantastic 
gew-gaw  building  set  amid  the  placid  river-side 


NEW  FRIENDS 


195 


scenery — “ did  ever  any  one  see  anything  so 
monstrous  as  that — so  preposterous  in  itself,  and 
so  out  of  keeping  with  the  quiet,  old-fashioned 
town!  Why,  have  you  no  public-spirited  men 
in  England?  Couldn’t  they  raise  a subscription 
to  buy  that  awful  structure,  and  have  it  con- 
veyed to  the  coast  and  hurled  into  the  sea?  How 
do  you  expect  Shakespeare’s  ghost  to  rest,  with 
a thing  like  that  in  the  neighborhood?  ” 

And  then  again,  as  they  were  driving  home, 
she  said  in  her  airy  fashion : 

“ How  do  you  spend  the  evenings,  Cousin 
Dick?” 

“After  dinner,  you  mean?”  he  said.  “Oh, 
well,  the  mater  is  always  happy  enough  if  she 
has  a volume  of  Tennyson,  and  I wander  about 
outside  with  a cigarette.” 

“ You  haven’t  a billiard-room?  ” 

“ No.” 

“ Papa  must  see  that  there  is-a  billiard-room  in 
the  house  he  takes  in  London,”  continued  Miss 
Florence,  with  decision.  “Gentlemen  are  too 
valuable  creatures  of  an  evening  to  be  allowed 
to  go  away  by  themselves  to  smoke.  And  I’m 
very  fond  of  smoke.” 

“ Perhaps  you  have  tried  a cigarette  yourself?  ” 
he  asked,  with  a dash  of  impertinence. 

“ I ? ” she  answered  carelessly.  “ Oh,  no.  But 
I can  play  billiards  a little;  and  I don’t  care 


196 


NANCIEBEL 


how  smoky  the  atmosphere  is.  By  the  way, 
Cousin  Dick,  are  you  a good  waltzer?  ” 

“I  don’t  know — middling,  I suppose,”  was  his 
reply. 

“That  means  you  are  a capital  waltzer,”  she 
said  with  much  satisfaction,  “and  I’m  delighted 
to  hear  it.  A cousin  who  is  a good  waltzer  must 
be  simply  invaluable;  and  when  we  get  our 
London  house  I shall  rely  on  you  to  save  me 
from  bad  partners — an  awful  lot  can  be  done  by 
skilful  connivance.  One  of  these  evenings  at 
Woodend  we’ll  clear  the  drawing-room  and  have 
a turn,  to  see  if  our  steps  correspond;  and,  being 
my  cousin,  you  know,  you  won’t  be  afraid  to 
catch  hold  of  me — that  is  the  worst  of  a bad 
partner — a stranger — who  seems  to  think  you’re 
made  of  glass  and  will  break  if  he  touches  you. 
I like  to  feel  that  my  partner  has  a good  grip, 
and  knows  where  he  is  going.” 

When  they  reached  home,  they  found  that  tea 
had  just  been  brought  in  to  the  widow’s  little 
boudoir;  and  through  the  windows  they  could 
see  that  Uncle  Alexander  was  pacing  up  and  down 
the  longest  path  in  the  garden  outside — walking 
with  a quick,  little,  shuffling  step,  his  head  bent 
forward,  his  arms  swinging  at  his  side. 

“ Shall  I go  and  call  your  papa,  Cousin  Floss?  ” 
said  Mr.  Richard — bravely  tackling  her  newly 
assumed  style  and  title. 


NEW  FRIENDS 


197 


“Oh,  no,  no!”  she  cried.  “He’ll  come  in 
when  he  has  done  the  regulation  quantity.  I 
have  no  doubt  he  has  carefully  measured  out 
the  forty-four  yards;  and  forty  times  makes  a 
mile,  you  know;  but  if  you  interrupt  him  he 
loses  count,  and  has  to  begin  the  mile  all  over 
again — and  that  makes  him  cross,  naturally. 
Poor  papa ! he  used  to  be  so  put  out  on  board 
ship — he  never  could  get  a stretch  of  the  upper 
deck  left  undisturbed  for  him ; as  soon  as  he  be- 
gan, one  of  the  officers  would  be  sure  to  order  up 
the  Lascars  to  do  something  or  other,  or  else 
some  of  the  passengers  would  come  and  take 
possession  with  rope-quoits  or  shovel-board.  I 
hope  our  London  house  will  be  in  a square 
where  papa  will  be  able  to  get  a measured  space 
without  being  overlooked.” 

But  when  Uncle  Alexander  came  in  it  was  not 
to  tea.  He  was  groaning  and  complaining;  he 
hardly  knew  which  of  his  ailments  demanded 
most  immediate  attention,  whether  it  was  the 
headache  that  lay  across  his  brow  like  an  iron  1 
clamp,  or  the  heartburn  that  gnawed  in  his 
bosom  like  some  internal  rat,  or  the  sickness  and 
lassitude  that  seemed  pulling  him  generally  to 
the  ground.  Well,  he  attacked  the  heartburn 
first — with  bicarbonate  of  soda.  That  proving 
of  no  avail,  he  had  a thin  slice  of  bread-and-but- 
ter thickly  spread  with  cayenne  pepper;  and 


NANCIEBEL 


198 

having  bolted  that  bolus,  he  washed  it  down 
with  a good  stiff  glass  of  brown  brandy-and- 
water.  Whether  the  heartburn  disappeared  or 
not,  he  seemed  at  least  to  recover  a little  from 
the  hopeless  depression  that  had  been  hanging 
over  him and  he  could  now  talk  without  a suc- 
cession of  melancholy  sighs. 

He  was  going  up  to  town  next  morning,  he 
said.  Would  it  be  convenient  for  Aunt  Cecilia 
to  have  Florence  remain  with  her  for  a week  or 
ten  days,  until  he  had  seen  to  his  business 
affairs  in  London?  The  widow  replied  that  she 
would  be  most  delighted — she  had  already  cast 
favoring  eyes  on  this  frank-spirited  girl.  There- 
after, again  asked  Uncle  Alexander,  would  Aunt 
Cecilia  and  Richard  come  up  to  town  and  be  his 
guests  for  a week  or  two  at  the  private  hotel  he 
was  staying  at  in  Arlington  Street?  Florence 
wanted  some  one  to  show  her  about  London ; he 
would  be  glad  to  have  Aunt  Cecilia’s  advice 
about  the  choice  of  a house.  The  little  widow 
hesitated.  The  whirl  of  town  life  was  not  much 
to  her  liking ; she  had  grown  accustomed  to  this 
peaceful,  secluded  existence.  But  here  Miss 
Florence  struck  in,  and  declared  that  she  would 
only  remain  at  Woodend  on  the  understanding* 
that  Aunt  Cecilia  and  Cousin  Dick  should  go  to 
London  with  her  at  the  end  of  her  stay ; and  that 
settled  the  matter.  The  arrangement  was  finally 


NEW  FRIENDS 


1 99 


made,  and  Uncle  Alexander  returned  to  the 
garden  to  the  measured  forty-four  yards  that 
was  to  assist  the  action  of  the  cayenne  pepper 
and  brandy. 

So  it  came  about  that  Florence  Kingston  was 
established  at  Woodend,  where  she  speedily  made 
herself  felt  as  anything  but  a dull  and  depress- 
ing influence.  The  irresistible  cheerfulness,  the 
kindliness,  the  good  humor  of  the  girl  acted  as 
a kind  of  charm  upon  the  solitary  little  widow, 
who  thawed  and  warmed  into  smiles  in  the  sun- 
shine of  this  constant  companionship.  For  it 
was  not  at  all  upon  Mr.  Richard  that  Cousin  Floss 
bestowed  her  attention.  Indeed,  she  treated 
that  young  man  in  somewhat  of  a cavalier  spirit; 
it  was  the  gentle  mother  whom  she  petted,  and 
teased,  and  spoiled,  and  laughed  at,  all  at  once. 

“I  declare,  Richard,”  said  the  widow,  on  one 
occasion  when  Cousin  Floss  had  just  left  the 
room,  “ when  that  girl  goes  out,  it  is  just  as  if  a 
hurricane  had  passed  by — leaving  a sudden  calm 
behind  it.” 

“And  yet  you  don’t  seem  to  dislike  her, 
mater,”  he  observed. 

“Dislike  her?  No.  Sometimes  I think  I am 
getting  too  fond  of  her,”  the  widow  said,  with  a 
sigh ; perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  what  might 
have  been. 

Then  came  the  evening  on  which  the  great 


200 


NANCIEBEL 


waltzing-  experiment  was  to  be  tried.  As  well 
as  they  could  they  cleared  the  tables  and  chairs 
from  the  larger  drawing-room ; and  Mrs.  King- 
ston was  asked  to  officiate  at  the  piano.  How 
long  was  it  since  the  widow  had  played  a waltz, 
or  any  other  species  of  musical  composition,  for 
the  matter  of  that?  Nevertheless,  she  could  re- 
fuse this  headstrong  girl  nothing;  so  presently 
she  was  strumming  away  at  some  fine  old-fash- 
ioned tune,  while  the  young  people  were  gliding 
round  the  cleared  space  to  the  tinkle-tankle  of 
the  venerable  instrument.  When  they  stopped, 
Miss  Florence  was  good  enough  to  say : 

“You  do  very  well,  Cousin  Dick.  Oh,  yes; 
you  and  I will  have  a little  practice  every  even- 
ing, and  we’ll  get  into  each  other’s  ways  per- 
fectly. I like  your  reversing;  you’re  not  afraid 
to  catch  hold.  And  then  I shall  rely  on  you  in 
London,  mind.  Whenever  I want  to  get  rid  of 
a bore  or  a bad  dancer  I shall  claim  you.  You 
must  be  at  my  beck  and  call.  It’s  wonderful 
what  tricks  you  can  play  with  a programme  when 
you  have  an  accomplice;  and  when  the  accom- 
plice is  your  cousin,  it’s  all  right,  don’t  you 
see?” 

But  the  opportunities  for  bringing  this  dark 
conspiracy  into  operation  were  as  yet  afar  off; 
for  when  Mrs.  Kingston  and  Mr.  Richard  event- 
ually went  up  to  London  with  Cousin  Floss,  the 


NEW  FRIENDS 


201 


whole  party  found  themselves  in  a private  hotel, 
Uncle  Alexander  not  yet  having  provided  himself 
with  a house.  And  meanwhile,  as  the  retired 
China  merchant  was  still  being  called  upon  to  go 
into  the  city  on  business  matters,  the  introducing 
of  Miss  Florence  to  the  ways  and  customs  of  the 
town,  and  to  its  outward  features  as  well,  fell 
upon  these  two  Warwickshire  folk,  who  were 
almost  as  much  strangers  as  herself.  That, 
however,  did  not  matter  much  to  Mr.  Richard, 
who  had  the  arrangement  of  their  little  excur- 
sions, and  rather  liked  going  about  with  this 
pretty  and  vivacious  cousin.  The  barouche 
which  Uncle  Alexander  had  hired  he  seldom  was 
allowed  to  make  use  of ; it  was  in  almost  constant 
requisition  for  the  three  sight-seers.  Miss  Flor- 
ence was,  of  course,  taken  to  the  Tower.  The 
British  Museum  did  not  occupy  much  of  her 
time;  but  a students’  day  in  the  National  Gallery 
interested  her  keenly.  She  heard  part  of  a de- 
bate in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  had  tea  in 
the  tea-room.  She  hunted  out  the  neighborhoods 
that  had  grown  familiar  to  her  in  her  favorite 
novels;  was  that,  then,  the  actual  building  in 
which  poor  Angelica  had  sat  and  stitched,  and 
watered  her  bread  with  tears,  and  given  her 
lover  up  for  dead — the  lover  who  was  pining  in 
a Spanish  prison  far  away,  and  even  hoping  to 

regain  his  native  land?  Other  buildings  also, 
9* 


202 


NANCIEBEL 


whose  names  she  had  heard  of,  she  was  taken  to 
visit — the  Trafalgar  at  Greenwich,  the  Star  and 
Garter  at  Richmond,  and  so  forth;  and  most 
frankly  did  she  enjoy  the  little  festivities  that 
accompanied  these  wanderings.  Then  there 
were  concerts  and  theatres  for  an  occasional 
afternoon  or  evening ; hardly  a day  seemed  long 
enough.  The  widow  grew  quite  cheerful  through 
her  constant  association  with  this  bright  and  bold 
young  life  that  was  showing  all  its  pleasantest 
characteristics  in  these  varied  scenes ; Mr.  Rich- 
ard had  never  seen  her  look  so  well  or  so  happy ; 
and  she  was  content  (if  with  a smile  of  doleful 
resignation)  to  wear  whatever  Miss  Florence  im- 
periously insisted  on  her  wearing.  Uncle  Alex- 
ander, it  may  be  observed,  remained  apart  from 
these  gayeties.  For  one  thing,  his  business  ar- 
rangements did  not  go  forward  quite  as  smoothly 
as  he  had  expected ; for  another,  the  state  of  his 
health  called  for  a constant  care.  He  was  his 
own  physician.  He  had  found  that  ordinary  doc- 
tors were  rude  persons,  who  were  not  ashamed 
to  hint  that  he  ought  to  eat  and  drink  less  and 
take  more  exercise.  He  knew  that  his  many  ail- 
ments arose  from  far  more  recondite  causes,  and 
demanded  the  most  studious  treatment.  These 
continuous  escapades  on  the  part  of  his  daughter 
and  her  two  relatives  were  not  for  him.  How 
could  he  be  expected  to  go  and  breathe  the  pol- 


NEW  FRIENDS 


203 


luted  air  of  a theatre,  when  he  had  to  be  in  his 
own  room,  looking  every  ten  minutes  at  his 
tongue  in  a mirror?  But  he  was  glad  to  think 
that  Floss  had  youth  and  health  and  spirits  to 
enjoy  all  that  mad  gadding  about;  and  he  hoped 
that  his  sister-in-law  and  her  son  would  prolong 
their  stay  in  London  as  long  as  they  conveniently 
could. 

Amid  all  this  whirl  of  amusement  and  enjoy- 
ment Mr.  Richard  suddenly  remembered  that  the 
day  appointed  for  his  first  visit  to  Bristol  was 
drawing  near;  and  perhaps  he  had  an  uneasy 
consciousness  that  he  had  been  somewhat  ne- 
glectful of  poor  little  Nanciebel.  He  had  not 
written  to  her  literally  every  morning — for  life 
in  London  was  a desperately  busy  thing;  and 
sometimes  his  budget  of  news  for  the  week  was 
a somewhat  perfunctory  affair.  However,  that 
would  all  be  put  right  now.  Letter- writing  was  an 
ineffective  thing  at  the  best.  When  he  was  once 
more  face  to  face  with  his  sweetheart — her  tender 
eyes  looking  into  his — she  would  know  that  he 
had  been  true  to  her  in  absence.  And  would 
they  not  both  congratulate  each  other  that  the 
first  two  months  of  that  cruel  separation  were 
now  over? 

When  Cousin  Floss  heard  that  he  was  going 
down  to  Bristol  on  the  following  Monday  she  was 
indignant. 


204 


NANCIEBEL 


“What  for?”  she  demanded  in  her  straight- 
forward way. 

“I  have  an  appointment — that  I must  keep,” 
said  he. 

“ Why,  it  is  Monday  night  we  were  going  to 
see  ‘The  Winter’s  Tale’  at  the  Lyceum — papa 
got  the  box  a fortnight  ago.  And  you  know 
your  mother  and  I just  hate  going  anywhere  by 
ourselves.  How  far  away  is  Bristol?  Can’t  you 
come  back  in  time  to  take  us  to  the  theatre?  ” 

Well,  the  truth  is  he  had  intended  staying  the 
night  at  Holiwell  Vicarage,  in  order  to  have  a 
long  evening  with  Nanciebel;  but  then,  on  the 
other  hand,  both  his  mother  and  cousin  looked  so 
naturally  to  him  for  escort  and  guidance  that  he 
was  almost  bound  to  return  and  take  them  to  the 
Lyceum  as  they  wished.  There  was  an  after- 
noon train  leaving  Bristol  which  would  bring 
him  to  Paddington  at  6:30;  that  would  just  give 
him  time  to  get  to  the  hotel,  snatch  a bit  of  din- 
ner, and  dress.  So  he  told  Cousin  Floss  that  she 
should  not  be  balked  of  “The  Winter’s  Tale” 
on  his  account. 

He  left  London  on  the  Monday  morning  by 
the  9 o’clock  express,  and  reached  Bristol  at  12. 
During  the  journey  down  he  had  been  possessed 
not  so  much  with  joy  at  the  prospect  of  meeting 
Nanciebel  as  with  a half-confessed  fear  that  she 
might  begin  to  cross-examine  him,  and  be  petu- 


NEW  FRIENDS 


205 


lant,  and  cause  trouble.  He  was  conscious  that 
the  sorrow  of  separation  had  not  fallen  equally 
on  him  and  her — he  had  had  distractions,  about 
which  the  less  said  the  better.  And  when,  on 
arriving  at  Holiwell  Vicarage,  and  being  ushered 
into  the  drawing-room,  he  found  that  along  with 
Nanciebel  there  were  his  two  cousins  and  also 
the  governess,  perhaps  he  was  somewhat  re- 
lieved. Yet  Nanciebel  looked  so  gentle! — and 
so  pleased  at  his  coming,  too.  She  regarded  him 
covertly  with  her  dark,  soft  eyes;  and  a man- 
tling blush  suffused  her  cheek  when  he  made  bold 
to  address  a word  or  two  to  her  direct.  “ Mr. 
Kingston,”  she  called  him  before  the  vicar’s 
daughters  and  the  governess.  There  was  some- 
thing odd  and  unexpected  about  the  way  she 
wore  her  hair  now — and  about  her  dress,  too — 
that  did  not  escape  his  notice;  she  seemed  to 
have  undergone  some  kind  of  transformation, 
though  he  could  not  define  it  exactly;  she  was 
hardly  the  same  Nanciebel  who  used  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  little  court-yard  with  him,  crisp 
snow  underfoot  and  shining  and  throbbing  stars 
overhead. 

Luncheon-bell  rang  and  the  vicar  appeared  at 
the  same  time ; in  a minute  or  two  they  were  all 
assembled  at  table  in  the  dining-room.  And 
Uncle  Charles  was  full  of  questions  about  his 
brother-in-law  Alexander  and  his  plans,  and  also 


206 


NANCIEBEL 


about  his  niece,  or  quasi-niece,  Florence,  whom 
he  had  never  seen.  On  this  latter  point  Mr. 
Richard  was  frankly  talkative,  not  to  say  effu- 
sive; and  Nanciebel,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  listened  in  silence.  A stranger  might 
have  fancied  that  she  and  this  handsome  young 
man  had  now  met  for  the  first  time ; and  that 
the  quiet  little  country  girl  was  rather  impressed 
by  his  stories  of  the  fine  doings  in  London 
town. 

After  luncheon,  the  various  members  of  the 
small  household  discreetly  went  their  several 
ways,  leaving  Mr.  Richard  and  his  sweetheart  by 
themselves.  But  still  there  were  servants  about, 
so  Nanciebel  said  shyly: 

“Will  you  come  into  the  garden,  Richard?  ” 

“Anywhere  you  like,  Nancy,"  he  answered; 
and  he  followed  her  through  the  open  French 
window  and  down  the  wide  stone  steps.  It  was 
a large,  old-fashioned  garden;  and  there  were 
walls  of  yew  intersecting  it. 

“I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  Richard,"  she 
said,  with  downcast  eyes  (she  did  not  dare  to  take 
his  arm,  for  there  might  be  a spectator  at  one  or 
other  of  the  windows) . 

“And  I am  glad  to  find  you  looking  so  well," 
said  he.  “ I was  sure  you  would  find  my  uncle 
and  my  cousins  as  kind  as  you  could  wish.  I 
saw  that  from  the  first,  in  your  letters,  though 


NEW  FRIENDS 


207 


you  weren’t  quite — quite  as — as  outspoken  as  you 
might  have  been.” 

“Were  you  disappointed,  Richard?  ” she  said 
humbly.  “ But  you  don’t  know,  dear,  how  lonely 
I have  been  since  I came  here!  Yes,  they  are 
very  kind;  but  kindness  isn’t  everything,”  she 
continued,  with  a bit  of  a sigh.  “ When  I think 
of  those  days  at  Stratford — ah,  that  was  differ- 
ent ! ” 

“Yes,  I know,  Nanciebel,”  he  said.  “ But  you 
can’t  expect  everything.  I know  you  are  very 
warm-hearted ; and  you  like  to  have  people  say 
nice  things  to  you,  and  be  good  to  you,  and  pet 
you.  But  that  can’t  be  always  and  everywhere; 
and  I don’t  think  you  are  so  badly  off.” 

“It’s  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  so,”  said 
Nanciebel,  with  some  rebellious  spirit,  “when 
you  are  having  every  possible  enjoyment  and 
amusement  along  with  that  cousin  of  yours.  Of 
course  you  don’t  feel  dull.  Of  course  you  don’t 
feel  lonely.” 

“Well,”  said  he  sharply,  “I  don’t  pine  and 
fret  if  there  is  no  one  by  to  say  pretty  things  and 
give  me  caresses.” 

“ I dare  say  she  would  if  you  asked  her,”  said 
Nanciebel,  with  a toss  of  her  head. 

He  drew  in  his  breath — but  stopped  ere  any 
word  of  anger  could  escape.  No,  he  had  not 
come  down  here  to  quarrel  with  Nancy.  And 


208 


NANCIEBEL 


after  all  might  there  not  be  some  little  justifica- 
tion? Had  he  quite  realized  her  loneliness? 
Had  he  honestly  contrasted  it  with  the  gay  time 
he  had  been  spending  in  London? 

“We  needn’t  fall  out,  Nanciebel,”  said  he 
slowly.  “ I have  only  a short  time  to  stay.” 

“ A short  time  to  stay?  ” she  repeated.  “ Why, 
when  are  you  going  back?  ” 

“ By  the  3 142,”  he  made  answer. 

There  was  a momentary  silence. 

“ Richard,”  said  she,  “here  is  the  time  come 
we  have  been  looking  forward  to  so  long — at 
least  that  I have  been  looking  forward  to ; and 
you  take  advantage  of  it  to  the  extent  of  a couple 
of  hours.  Are  you  sure  it  wasn’t  a mere  sense 
of  duty  that  brought  you  here  at  all?  Perhaps 
you  didn’t  want  to  come?  ” 

“ Perhaps  I didn’t  want  to  come!  ” he  said  im- 
patiently. And  then  he  controlled  himself,  and 
said  in  quite  an  altered  tone : 

“ Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense,  Nanciebel  ! Why 
will  you  insist  on  quarrelling,  you  little  quick- 
tempered, warm-hearted  stupid!  Come,  kiss  and 
be  friends.” 

They  were  at  the  moment  passing  through  an 
arched  opening  cut  in  the  thick  wall  of  yew ; and 
she  obediently  paused,  and  did  as  she  was  bid. 
The  reconciliation  was  complete.  She  took  him 
to  see  Mr.  Stapleton’s  greenhouses,  and  intro- 


NEW  FRIENDS 


209 


duced  him  to  the  head  gardener — a young 
Scotchman  of  eight-and-twenty  or  so,  who, as  she 
afterward  informed  him,  was  prodigiously  clever, 
had  attended  classes  at  Glasgow  University, 
though  he  was  then  quite  poor,  and  was  now  so 
recognized  a master  of  his  art  that  he  had  been 
offered  the  equivalent  of  his  present  situation  at 
Beever  Towers,  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Grandon. 
She  led  him  round  to  show  him  the  caged  eagles, 
and  the  white  peacocks,  and  what-not;  indeed, 
she  seemed  just  as  much  at  home  here  at  Holiwell 
Court  as  at  the  adjoining  vicarage.  Then  she 
pointed  out  that  if  he  must  really  go  by  the  3 \\2 
train,  it  was  about  time  for  him  to  return  in- 
doors. 

Both  his  cousins  and  Nanciebel  drove  with 
him  in  to  the  town  to  see  him  off.  The  parting 
between  him  and  Nancy  was  necessarily  not 
effusive — for  Gertrude  and  Laura  were  looking 
on,  and  they  were  merry  and  talkative  girls  who 
would  hardly  leave  him  alone  for  a second.  Nor 
were  there  tears  in  Nanciebel’ s eyes  as  the  train 
moved  away  from  the  station  and  as  she  waved 
her  handkerchief  to  him  in  final  adieu.  In  fact, 
this  leave-taking  was  far  different  from  that 
which  had  occurred  when  Nanciebel  bade  good- 
by  to  Stratford;  but  was  it  not  better  that  it 
should  be  so,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  sat  alone  in 
the  carriage,  and  was  being  rapidly  whirled  away 


210 


NANCIEBEL 


toward  London?  Nancy  seemed  more  satisfied 
with  this  separation  now — if  at  times  she  com- 
plained that  there  was  no  one  to  be  good  to  her. 
And  meanwhile — meanwhile  he  would  get  to 
Arlington  Street  in  time  to  slip  into  evening 
dress  and  take  his  mother  and  Cousin  Floss  to 
the  Lyceum. 


CHAPTER  V 

FLIGHT 

On  that  same  afternoon  Uncle  Alexander  came 
home  from  the  city ; and  finding  his  step-daugh- 
ter and  Mrs.  Kingston  together,  he  without  any 
apology — for  rudeness  is  a prerogative  of  dys- 
pepsia— ordered  Miss  Florence  to  go  to  her  own 
room ; he  had  something  particular  to  say  to  Aunt 
Cecilia.  He  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  stared  into 
the  coals ; he  seemed  more  sallow  and  sluggish 
than  ever ; and  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  slow  and 
mournful  tones. 

“ I do  not  know  how  long  I am  for  this  world, 
Cecilia,”  he  observed.  “Every  day  I become 
more  depressed.  I cannot  shake  it  off — I have 
lost  hope — I hardly  care  how  soon  the  end  may 
be.” 


FLIGHT 


2 1 1 


“Perhaps  London  does  not  agree  with  you,” 
the  widow  said,  with  gentle  sympathy.  “Why 
should  you  not  try  travelling,  Uncle  Alexander — 
on  the  Continent?  ” 

“ Try  travelling ! ” he  exclaimed,  in  sudden 
and  angry  impatience.  “ God  bless  my  soul, 
haven’t  I tried  travelling  sufficiently?  Haven’t 
I just  come  home  from  China?  Would  you  like 
me  to  go  back  to  Shanghai  for  a change  ? I wish 
you  would  listen,  and  not  interrupt  with  fatui- 
ties ; how  long  do  I know  I may  be  able  to  make 
my  wishes  known?  ” And  then  he  continued  in 
more  business-like  tones:  “ Now,  this  is  what  I 
want  to  say — that  in  view  of  what  may  happen 
to  me  at  any  time,  I wish  to  make  the  best  pro- 
vision I can  for  those  I leave  behind — those  I am 
most  interested  in.  Florence  has  the  first  claim, 
of  course,  though  she  is  not  of  my  blood.  Rich- 
ard, on  the  other  hand,  is  of  my  own  kith  and 
kin.  Very  well;  when  I have  made  certain 
smaller  bequests,  the  bulk  of  my  property  will 
remain  to  be  divided  as  between  these  two.” 

“It  is  so  generous  of  you,  Uncle  Alexander!  ” 
the  widow  broke  in.  “ But  surely  there  is  no 
occasion  for  you  to  talk  like  that ! Surely  not ! 
Why,  I should  call  you  an  exceptionally  strong 
man.” 

“I  wish  you  to  listen,  if  you  please,  Cecilia,” 
observed  the  dyspeptic,  with  a dignity  natural  to 


212 


NANCIEBEL 


one  who  was  speaking  of  his  own  nearly- 
approaching  end.  “ I was  going  to  say  that  there 
might  be  some  difficulty  in  deciding  what  rela- 
tive portion  should  be  assigned  to  either  of  these 
two ; but  that  what  has  been  happening  of  late 
seems  to  point  to  an  easy  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. You  must  have  noticed  how  capitally 
these  two  get  on  together — how  fond  they  seem 
of  each  other’s  society.  Ah,  well,”  he  contin- 
ued, with  a heavy  sigh,  “youth  is  a fine  thing, 
and  health,  and  absence  from  care:  let  them 
enjoy  them  while  they  can!  ” 

But  sudden  consternation  filled  the  heart  of 
the  little  widow ; she  knew  what  he  meant ; and 
she  found  herself  on  the  brink  of  a confession 
which  she  had  put  off  from  day  to  day,  vainly 
hoping  that  the  need  of  it  would  not  arise. 

“Oh,  yes,  Uncle  Alexander,”  she  observed, 
rather  breathlessly.  “ I am  glad  to  see  them 
such  good  friends.  It  is  but  right  they  should 
be  so — almost  of  an  age — and  cousins — it  is  only 
to  be  expected ” 

“ I should  like  to  see  them  married  before  I 
go,”  continued  the  invalid  absently.  “Or  if  that 
is  denied  me,  I should  like  to  know  that  that  set- 
tlement of  their  lives  was  to  take  place,  and  I 
could  make  provision  for  them  in  proper  form.” 

“Uncle  Alexander,”  said  the  widow,  with  her 
trembling  fingers  nervously  clasped  together, 


FLIGHT 


213 


“it  is  most  kind  and  generous  of  you  to  have 
such  intentions  in  view.  But — but  I think — I 
must  explain — as  regards  Richard,  what  you  pro- 
pose is  impossible.  I have  said  that  I am  de- 
lighted to  see  him  and  his  cousin  on  such  friendly 
terms — but — but  that  is  all  there  is  betwreen 
them.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  I understand,”  Uncle  Alexander  said 
impatiently.  “ I understand.  Of  course  nothing 
has  been  declared  between  them.  That  is  quite 
right.  There  has  not  been  a sufficient  length  of 
time.  But  we,  who  are  outsiders  and  spectators, 
can  see  clearly  enough  what  will  happen.” 

“O  Uncle  Alexander,”  she  exclaimed  in  her 
distress,  “it  can  never  happen.” 

He  stared  at  her. 

“What  do  you  mean,  Cecilia?  ” he  demanded. 

“ Richard  is — is  already  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried,” she  blurted  out. 

There  was  no  explosion  of  wrath ; he  only  con- 
tinued to  stare, at  her  as  if  she  were  an  imbecile, 
whose  utterances  were  wholly  unintelligible. 

“ But — but — what  was  that  ? — impossible  ? — 
what  did  you  say?  Richard  engaged  to  be 
married?”  he  repeated,  with  non-understanding 
eyes. 

The  ordeal  had  to  be  faced.  She  began,  and 
with  piteous  excuses  for  not  having  made  the 
revelation  before,  she  told  him  the  whole  story. 


2 14 


NANCIEBEL 


Uncle  Alexander  sat  and  listened,  dumfounded 
beyond  the  power  of  speech.  A sort  of  despair 
and  resignation  overwhelmed  him.  And  when 
she  had  finished  he  could  only  ejaculate: 

“Well,  well,  if  any  human  being  ever  heard 
of  such  a gigantic  piece  of  tomfoolery!  ” 

But  presently  he  said,  with  a blaze  of  anger : 
“Why,  don’t  you  know  that  every  young  idiot 
gets  into  a scrape  like  that,  and  that  it  is  the 
business  of  his  relatives — unless  they’re  fools — 
unless  they’re  fools — to  get  him  out  of  it?  Don’t 
you  know  it’s  as  common  as  shelling  peas?  You 
talk  to  me  as  if  it  was  a piece  of  romantic  senti- 
ment— Miller’s  Daughter  be  hanged ! — and  that 
the  young  idiot  should  rather  be  praised  for  hold- 
ing to  the  girl ! I tell  you  it  happens  every  day 
— and  will  happen  every  day  as  long  as  idle  lads 
are  allowed  to  dawdle  about,  and  there  are  shop- 
girls and  milliner-girls  and  barmaids  to  make 
eyes  at  them.  And  instead  of  getting  him  out 
of  the  scrape,  you  treat  the  whole  thing  as  serious ! 
Gracious  heavens ! But  I must  put  this  matter 
right.  What’s  the  girl’s  name  ? How  much 
does  she  want?  What  size  of  a check  has  she 
got  in  her  eye?  ” 

Mrs.  Kingston  flushed  a little. 

“ I wish  you  to  understand,  Uncle  Alexander,” 
said  she  with  unusual  firmness,  “ that  the  girl  is 
a good  and  honest  girl,  and  not  a designing  ad- 


FLIGHT 


215 


venturess  at  all — that  I am  convinced  of ; and  I 
do  not  see  why  she  should  be  insulted  simply 
because  of  her  station  in  life — which  is  perfectly 
respectable  and  honorable,  if  it  comes  to  that.” 

“Stuff  and  fiddlesticks!  ” cried  Uncle  Alexan- 
der. Indeed,  this  sharp  crisis  in  the  family  af- 
fairs seemed  to  have  suddenly  banished  all  that 
languor  and  depression  which,  according  to  his 
account,  were  dragging  him  down  to  the  tomb. 
“You’re  too  fond  of  romance  and  poetry,  Ce- 
cilia; and  that’s  the  fact.  You  want  a little  com- 
mon sense  to  come  in  to  put  matters  straight. 
Where  is  this  girl?  ” 

“At  Holiwell  Vicarage,”  Mrs.  Kingston  an- 
swered. “ Uncle  Charles  is  taking  charge  of  her 
for  the  present.” 

The  China  merchant  stared  at  her  again. 

“ No,”  said  he  solemnly ; “ no,  Cecilia,  you  can- 
not mean  that  there  are^  three  such  fools  in  the 
family ! Two  I could  have  borne  with — but  three ! 
Uncle  Charles  as  well! — upon  my  soul,  it’s  be- 
yond belief!  ” 

But  the  meanest  worm  will  turn. 

“ I wish  to  say  this  once  for  all,  Uncle  Alexan- 
der,” observed  the  little  widow,  with  very  con- 
siderable dignity,  “that  I hope  you  will  not 
speak  to  Richard  as  you  have  done  to  me  this 
afternoon.  His  temper  is  not  so  much  under 
control  as  mine ; he  would  probably  answer  you 


2l6 


NANCIEBEL 


in  your  own  language.  Propose  to  him  that  the 
girl  he  is  engaged  to  should  be  offered  a sum  of 
money,  and  I know  one  certain  consequence — he 
would  never  darken  your  door  again,  nor  woiild 
you  or  yours  ever  enter  our  house.  As  for  my 
share  in  this  matter,  I am  not  ashamed  of  it.  I 
have  done  what  I thought  was  right.  Richard’s 
word  is  pledged  to  a good  and  honorable  girl ; 
and  if  he  is  my  son  he  will  not  disgrace  himself 
— I say,  disgrace  himself — by  seeking  to  break 
that  bond,  whatever  pecuniary  and  mercenary 
inducements  may  be  placed  before  him.” 

She  rose  as  if  to  leave  the  room. 

“Cecilia!  ” he  said,  to  stay  her. 

“No,”  she  made  answer,  “let  that  be  the  last 
word.  I wish  for  peace  between  the  two  fami- 
lies. There  will  be  no  peace — there  will  be  a 
lasting  rupture  and  estrangement  if  you  propose 
that  Richard  should  do  anything  dishonorable, 
merely  because  you  have  had  certain  plans  in 
view.  I do  not  say  that  in  other  circumstances 
I might  not  have  wished  as  you  wish ; but  as 
matters  stand  I hope  my  son  will  act  as  becomes 
the  name  he  bears.  And  another  thing,  Uncle 
Alexander : neither  he  nor  Florence  need  know 
that  a word  has  passed  between  us  on  the  sub- 
ject. They  are  very  good  friends  and  nothing 
more ; let  them  remain  such — if  you  choose  it  to 
be  so.  If  not,  then  my  boy  and  I can  return  to 


FLIGHT 


217 


Woodend  at  once,  and  we  shall  not  trouble  you 
again.” 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  She  forthwith 
quitted  the  room,  leaving  Uncle  Alexander  entire- 
ly out-talked  and  astonished.  He  had  not  antici- 
pated this  display  of  firmness — this  bold  up- 
standing of  what  he  considered  idiotic  sentiment 
against  the  rude  and  doughty  onslaughts  of  com- 
mon sense.  And  when  he  began  to  consider 
matters,  he  had  to  confess  that  perhaps  he  had 
been  a little  premature.  That  this  shop-girl 
could  be  bought  off  he  was  convinced;  but  he 
had  erred  in  making  the  proposition  too  sud- 
denly to  the  widow.  Then,  again,  he  would 
have  a better  right  to  interfere  when  the  rela- 
tionship between  Richard  and  Florence  had  be- 
come developed — in  the  obvious  and  proper  di- 
rection, of  course.  What!  Richard  marry  a pen- 
niless little  seamstress  in  Stratford-on-Avon — 
a shy,  speechless  nonentity,  as  the  widow  had 
half  admitted — when  here  was  his  bright  and 
fascinating  cousin,  an  heiress,  gifted  with  every 
qualification,  a fit  helpmeet,  one  who  would  do 
him  honor  in  society?  Uncle  Alexander,  seated 
by  the  slumbering  fire,  was  so  intent  upon  these 
various  schemes  and  considerations  that  he  for- 
got he  had  allowed  a whole  hour  to  elapse  since 
he  had  examined  his  tongue  in  the  mirror — and 

during  that  hour  he  had  kept  his  daughter  Flor- 
10 


21 8 


NANCIEBEL 


ence  a prisoner  upstairs ; and  when  eventually  he 
went  away  to  his  own  room,  to  seek  safety  and  con- 
solation in  his  medicine  chest,  he  was  still  of 
opinion  that  the  widow’s  quixotic  ideas  of  duty 
and  her  son’s  chivalrous  resolves  with  regard  to 
that  wretched  little  milliner-girl — was  she  a mil- 
liner-girl?  he  had  forgotten — would  in  time  be 
overcome.  For  great  is  the  power  of  common 
sense. 

Accordingly,  Uncle  Alexander  did  not  return 
to  this  project;  and  as  the  widow  heard  no  more 
of  it,  she,  in  turn,  was  silent,  so  that  the  two 
cousins  were  thrown  into  association  just  as  here- 
tofore, ignorant  of  the  dark  schemes  and  designs 
which  had  been  foreshadowed  with  regard  to 
their  future.  And  the  better  to  secure  his  sinis- 
ter end,  Uncle  Alexander  declared  that  for  the 
present  he  was  going  to  abandon  his  intention 
of  taking  and  fitting  out  a London  house : it  was 
too  much  trouble.  He  did  not  know  but  that,  if 
his  health  continued  to  grow  worse,  he  and  Flor- 
ence might  not  go  away  to  one  of  the  German 
baths,  so  that  he  might  try  a course  of  the  wa- 
ters. In  the  mean  time  he  discovered  a furnished 
residence  in  Melbury  Road  which  would  serve 
their  needs.  And  could  not  the  widow  postpone 
her  return  to  Woodend  fora  while,  so  as  to  initi- 
ate Florence  into  her  duties  as  house-mistress  ? 
When  Florence  preferred  the  same  request — or 


FLIGHT 


219 


rather  imperiously  insisted,  with  all  kinds  of 
direful  threats  and  cunning  coaxings — Mrs. 
Kingston  yielded ; she  could  refuse  nothing  to 
this  wild-spirited  Cousin  Floss. 

It  was  hardly  fair  to  put  any  young  man’s  con- 
stancy to  such  a perilous  test;  but  Mr.  Richard, 
even  while  giving  himself  up  to  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  the  society  of  this  charming  cousin, 
could  always  still  his  conscience  and  reassure 
himself  by  writing  a more  than  usually  affection- 
ate letter  to  Nanciebel.  And  why  should  he 
send  a too  minute  account  of  their  gay  doings 
when  he  knew  that  that  would  only  wound  the 
poor  faithful  heart?  Nancy  had  already  be- 
trayed a suspicious  curiosity  about  the  Florence 
whom,  he  briefly  mentioned  from  time  to  time, 
and  had  even  begun  to  demand  explanations. 

“Why,  you  see,  Nanciebel,”  he  wrote  in  reply, 
“ my  uncle  and  his  step-daughter  know  very  few 
people  in  London  as  yet ; and  as  he  is  a good  deal 
in  the  city,  the  time  would  hang  very  heavily  on 
her  hands  if  the  mater  did  not  take  her  about  a 
little.  Then,  of  course,  I have  to  accompany 
these  two.  I could  not  let  them  wander  about 
London  all  by  themselves;  but  do  you  think  it 
is  any  pleasure  to  me  to  go  to  the  Tower  or  to 
the  South  Kensington  Museum?  And  then, 
again,  when  any  people  send  them  an  invitation, 
the  mater  and  I are  sure  to  be  included,  as  it  is 


220 


NANCIEBEL 


known  we  are  staying-  with  them ; and  it  is  but 
natural  that  in  a strange  house,  if  there  is  any 
dancing  or  anything  going  on,  Florence  should 
count  upon  me,  as  her  cousin.  I don’t  see  how 
you  can  object;  but  you  have  such  a tendency  to 
magnify  trifles!  When  I express  regret  over 
our  engagement,  or  ask  you  to  release  me,  then 
you  will  have  a right  to  complain;  but  in  the 
mean  time  you  needn’t  grumble  about  nothing.” 

Nanciebel’s  answer  to  this  was  written  in  a 
dozen  different  moods : by  turns  she  was  indig- 
nant, rebellious,  petulant,  and  piteously  implor- 
ing. 

“What  is  the  use  of  keeping  me  here?  ” she 
asked.  “ What  is  the  use  of  it?  Did  you  see  any 
difference  in  me  when  you  came  down  that  day 
— except  in  the  dressing  of  my  hair?  And  did 
you  think  it  an  improvement — an  improvement 
worth  all  this  loneliness  and  misery?  Once  you 
would  have  said  that  my  hair  could  not  be  im- 
proved ; once  you  would  have  declared  it  was  the 
prettiest  in  the  world ; but  that  was  long  ago — 
that  was  before  your  cousin  Florence  came  to 
England.  I know  you  will  be  in  a rage  because 
I talk  of  misery ; and  you  will  accuse  me  of  in- 
gratitude, and  ask  what  more  I want.  Well,  I 
needn’t  attempt  to  tell  you,  for  you  wouldn’t 
understand ; but  I can  remember  the  time  when 
you  were  more  in  sympathy  with  my  feelings, 


FLIGHT 


221 


and  when  there  was  no  fear  of  my  being  misun- 
derstood. Once  you  would  not  have  left  me  to 
pine  like  this;  you  would  not  have  yielded  to 
relatives ; you  were  ready  to  do  anything  for  my 
sake.  But  I suppose  it’s  the  way  of  the  world; 
and  you,  of  course,  can’t  regret  an  absence  that 
brings  you  so  much — and  such  charming — con- 
solation. 

“ I have  written — I only  know  that  I just  hate 
being  alone.  Oh,  for  the  happy  mornings  and 
afternoons  when  I could  sit  and  listen  at  every 
footstep  on  the  pavement  outside,  and  think  that 
any  moment  my  Richard  might  come  in!  You 
did  not  want  me  improved  then.  I suppose  you 
never  think  now  of  the  Bideford  Road,  and  the 
lane  leading  down  to  Shottery,  and  the  meadows. 
It  seems  a long  time  ago  now  to  poor  me.  I sit 
and  think  that  never,  never  again  there  will  be 
the  long,  still,  beautiful  evenings,  and  us  two 
on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  seated  beneath  the 
bushes,  and  watching  the  boys  fishing  on  the 
other  side,  under  the  Weir  Brake.  Those  were 
happy,  happy  days!  Will  they  ever  come  again, 
Richard,  dear?  Do  say  something  kind  to  me 
when  you  write — I don’t  mean  the  kindness  I 
get  from  the  vicar  and  his  daughters,  but  real 
kindness,  for  I am  so  lonely  and  miserable ! ” 

Now  this  appeal,  couched  in  its  artless  lan- 
guage, made  Mr.  Richard  not  a little  remorseful ; 


222 


NANCIEBEL 


and  his  contrition  suddenly  assumed  the  shape 
of  a resolve  to  go  to  Cousin  Floss  and  tell  her  all 
about  his  engagement  to  Nanciebel.  He  did  not 
stay  to  ask  why  that  should  be  considered  as 
making  amends  to  Nancy;  he  only  felt  that  he 
was  somehow  called  upon  to  tell  the  whole  truth  ; 
then  Florence  could  think  of  him  as  she  pleased. 
Was  it  not  due  to  poor  Nanciebel?  Why  should 
she  be  ignored  amid  all  these  gayeties  and  dis- 
tractions? She  had  her  rights.  And  she  had 
not  been  too  exacting — her  last  letter  had  been 
piteous  rather  than  petulant  and  quarrelsome. 

But  this  proved  to  be  a terrible  business.  He 
chose  an  opportunity  when  Cousin  Floss  had  gone 
out  into  the  garden  to  have  a look  at  the  spring 
blossoms  or  perchance  to  survey,  with  feminine 
curiosity,  the  backs  of  the  artists’  houses,  across 
the  low  brick  wall.  When  he  overtook  her,  she 
was  apparently  busy  with  snowdrops  and  prim- 
roses and  daffodils ; and  she  was  so  good-natured 
as  to  pick  for  him  a purple  crocus  and  even  to 
fix  it  into  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  How  could  he 
refuse  this  simple  kindness  ? — he  was  not  a boor. 
Nevertheless,  in  about  twenty  minutes  or  so, 
he  and  she  and  the  little  widow  were  to  set  out 
for  the  private  view  of  a certain  picture-gallery, 
where  they  would  most  likely  meet  such  people 
as  they  knew ; and  he  would  be  wearing  Cousin 
Floss’  flower  in.  his  buttonhole.  Was  he  going 


FLIGHT 


223 


about  with  her,  then,  under  false  pretences?  The 
confession  had  become  all  the  more  imperative. 

But  how  was  he  to  begin  ? 

“Cousin,”  said  he  with  a most  unusual  hesita- 
tion— for,  under  her  skilful  tuition,  he  had  come 
to  address  her  in  the  most  frank  and  open  and 
unconventional  manner — “did  my  mother  ever 
speak  to  you — about — about — a Miss  Marlow?  ” 

She  noticed  his  embarrassment  instantly. 

“ Why,  no ! ” she  said,  in  some  surprise.  “ Miss 
Marlow?  No — I don’t  think  I ever  heard  the 
name.  Who  is  she?  ” 

How  could  he  explain  ? He  wished  that  Cousin 
Floss  had  not  such  clear  eyes,  and  a mouth  so 
ready  to  smile. 

“At  present,”  he  went  on  in  rather  a stam- 
mering fashion,  “she — she  is  living  with  my 
uncle  Charles  at  Bristol — at  the  vicarage,  near 
Bristol.” 

Cousin  Floss  laughed. 

“The  governess?  ” she  said. 

“No — no — but  I have  something  to  tell  you 
about  her.  I think  I ought  to  tell  you — for 
sooner  or  later  you  will  hear  of  it,”  he  continued 
— and  he  was  blushing  like  a school-girl,  because 
Cousin  Floss  was  evidently  amused  by  his  timid- 
ity. “ I thought  the  mater  would  have  told 
you ” 

All  of  a sudden  Miss  Florence  put  her  hand 


224 


NANCIEBEL 


within  his  arm  in  the  most  friendly  way,  and 
thereby  intimated  that  she  wished  him  to  pace 
np  and  down  the  garden  path  with  her. 

“Cousin  Dick!”  she  protested,  “I  won’t  hear 
a word!  I know  what  you’ve  got  to  tell  me — 
and  I can  see  how  it  vexes  you — but  I will  spare 
you  the  confession.  Oh,  don’t  I know  what 
dreadful  flirts  young  men  are — don’t  I know  ! — 
but  they  can’t  help  it,  the  poor  dears,  and  I am 
always  ready  to  forgive  them — because — because 
— well,  because  there  are  sometimes  girls  wicked 
enough  to  lead  them  on,  and  pretend  they  enjoy 
it,  too ! Cousin  Dick,  why  should  you  tell  me  ? 
— do  you  think  it  would  be  news?  ” 

“Oh,  but  you’re  quite  mistaken,  Florence!” 
he  exclaimed.  “ Quite  mistaken ! I assure  you 
she  is  not  the  kind  of  girl  to  amuse  herself  in 
that  way  at  all ” 

“Oh,  a simple  innocent,  is  she?  ” said  Cousin 
Floss,  with  another  little  bit  of  a laugh.  “Yes, 
they  sometimes  look  like  that — sometimes  it  is 
part  of  the  game — with  the  clever  ones ” 

“ Oh,  but  really ” 

“Oh,  but  really,”  she  repeated,  with  the  most 
obvious  good-nature,  “ I won’t  hear  another  word ! 
I won’t,  indeed,  Cousin  Dick!  Do  you  think  I 
don’t  understand?  You  see,  my  dear  cousin,  a 
girl  who  has  lived  a good  part  of  her  life  in 
India,  and  a still  longer  time  in  China,  and  knows 


FLIGHT 


225 


what  a voyage  in  a P.  and  O.  ship  is  like — well, 
she  isn’t  quite  a baby,  you  know — not  quite  a 
baby — and  if  you  were  to  begin  with  your  con- 
fessions, I might  have  to  begin  with  mine ; and 
wouldn’t  that  be  mutually  awkward?  I wish 
you  had  seen  a young  aide-de-camp,  a Captain 
Webster,  who  came  on  board,  this  last  trip,  at 
Aden,  and  remained  with  us  as  far  as  Suez.  He 
was  a dear — and  that’s  a fact;  but  papa  didn’t 
seem  to  see  much  in  him — papas  never  do  see 
anything  in  young  men  who  have  a pretty  mus- 
tache but  no  income  to  speak  of.  So,  you  under- 
stand, cousin,  I might  have  a story  or  two  to  tell 
as  well  as  you;  and  I shouldn’t  like  it,  for  blush- 
ing doesn’t  become  me;  besides,  it  is  far  safer 
and  nicer  for  every  one  to  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones. No,  you  needn’t  interrupt,  Cousin  Dick; 
I won’t  hear  another  word  from  you — not  a 
word ; we  will  both  let  bygones  be  bygones ; I 
tell  you,  it’s  safer.” 

And  as  Mrs.  Kingston  appeared  at  this  moment 
at  the  French  window,  and  called  to  them,  what 
could  he  do?  He  gave  up  the  hope  of  explain- 
ing to  his  cousin.  He  went  to  the  private  view, 
wearing  the  flower  she  had  given  him.  And  if 
any  one  drew  inferences  from  his  being  con- 
stantly seen  with  her — well,  how  could  he  help 
that? 

In  due  course  of  time  the  visit  of  Mrs.  King- 
10* 


226 


NANCIEBEL 


ston  and  her  son  to  their  London  relatives  came 
to  an  end;  and  they  returned  to  their  Warwick- 
shire home.  But  they  very  soon  discovered  that 
a singular  change  had  come  over  the  house. 
Woodend  was  solitary  as  they  had  never  known 
it  to  be  in  former  days.  There  was  something 
wanting  in  these  silent  rooms : a voice,  with  clear 
laughter  ringing  in  its  tones,  and  joy,  and  au- 
dacity, was  now  heard  no  more  in  the  hall ; the 
garden,  though  all  the  splendors  of  the  spring 
were  beginning  to  declare  themselves  in  plot, 
and  bed,  and  border,  seemed  empty  now. 

“ I could  not  have  believed  I should  have 
missed  her  so  much,”  the  widow  said  sadly. 

And  as  for  Mr.  Richard,  he  was  ill  at  ease. 
His  thoughts,  which  he  knew  should  have  been 
turned  toward  Bristol,  went  in  quite  another 
direction,  and  would  hover,  in  spite  of  himself, 
about  Kensington  and  the  neighborhood  of  Hol- 
land Park.  Poor  Nanciebel’s  fortnightly  letters 
to  himself  were  not  looked  for  half  so  eagerly 
as  Cousin  Floss’  hasty  scrawls  sent  down  to  her 
dear  aunt  Cecilia ; and  Mr.  Richard  would  lie  in 
wait  for  these,  and,  whenever  he  found  one  on 
the  hall- table,  he  would  at  once  carry  it  to  his 
mother,  with  the  seemingly  careless  question, 
“What  has  Florence  to  say  now,  mater?  ” For, 
indeed,  Cousin  Floss  seemed  to  find  a great  many 
things  to  say  to  the  widow.  She  was  continually 


FLIGHT 


227 


writing  on  some  kind  of  excuse ; and  she  invari- 
ably wound  up  with  pretty  and  affectionate 
speeches,  and  hopes  of  a speedy  reunion. 
Cousin  Floss  did  not  write  to  Mr.  Richard,  of 
course — that  was  too  much  to  expect ; but  in  one 
way  or  another  his  name  generally  came  to  be 
mentioned ; and  sometimes  there  were  tantalizing 
and  even  impertinent  messages  for  him. 

“Who  is  this  Captain  Webster,  Richard, 
dear?  ” the  widow  asked  on  one  occasion. 

Mr.  Richard  blushed  angrily. 

“Oh,  he’s  some  young  idiot — aide-de-camp  to 
a colonial  governor  or  something  of  that  kind.” 

“ But  why  should  Florence  send  you  this  mes- 
sage about  him?  ” Mrs.  Kingston  asked  again. 

“Oh,  well,”  said  he,  with  a fine  air  of  assumed 
indifference,  “ Florence  told  me  something  about 
him  before — he  was  on  board  the  steamer  they 
came  home  in — and  as  he  left  the  ship  at  Gibral- 
tar, I suppose  she  was  surprised  when  she  found 
him  turn  up  in  London.” 

Meanwhile  the  continual  unrest  and  down- 
heartedness that  had  characterized  his  manner 
ever  since  their  return  to  Woodend  had  not  es- 
caped the  anxious  mother’s  eyes ; and  one  even- 
ing she  made  bold  to  speak  of  it. 

“Well,  mater,”  said  he,  “I  don’t  know  what 
it  is,  except  that  I feel  I am  in  a wrong  position 
altogether.  I am  tired  of  doing  nothing.  I 


228 


NANCIEBEL 


want  to  go  away.  Look  at  Nancy ; the  separa- 
tion that  was  agreed  upon  tells  more  hardly  on 
her  than  on  me,  for  she  is  kept  apart  from  her 
friends  and  relatives,  while  I live  on  just  as  be- 
fore. It’s  hardly  fair.  I think  I should  go  away 
from  England  for  a time — for  a considerable 
time — until,  indeed,  this  period  of  separation 
ends,  and  then  I could  come  back  and  marry 
Nancy,  and  everything  would  be  settled  and 
right.  I am  sure,  if  once  the  wedding  took 
place,  all  would  be  well.” 

“I  suppose,”  said  the  widow  absently,  “that 
my  selfishness  must  be  punished  in  the  end. 
It  was  I who  have  kept  you  in  idleness,  Richard, 
and  now  you  fret,  and  want  to  go.  I should 
have  thought  you  could  have  found  some  way  of 
passing  the  few  months  that  must  elapse  now 
before  the  settlement  you  speak  of.  And  if  you 
find  the  house  so  dull — well,  I had  not  intended 
to  tell  you — it  was  a little  surprise  we  had  ar- 
ranged— but  Florence  is  coming  down  to  stay 
with  us  for  a while.” 

“Is  Florence  coming  down  here?”  he  asked 
slowly,  and  with  a strange  expression  of  face. 

Something  peculiar  in  his  tone  struck  her. 
She  looked  up  as  she  said : 

“Yes.  It  was  to  be  a little  surprise  for 


“Mother,”  he  said  hastily,  “I  will  not  be  in 


FLIGHT 


229 


this  house  when  Florence  conies.  You  must 
make  some  excuse  for  me.  I will  go  abroad ; or 
I will  go  down  to  Bristol  and  live  in  the  town, 
and  only  see  Nancy  from  time  to  time.  But  I — 
I don’t  want  to  be  here  when  Florence  comes.” 
The  truth  flashed  upon  her  in  an  instant ; but, 
amid  all  her  alarm  and  bewilderment,  she  had 
the  courage  to  say  in  a low  voice : 

“You  are  right,  Richard.  If  it  is  as  I suspect 
— ah,  well,  there  is  no  use  thinking  now  of  what 
might  have  been — you  must  none  the  less  do 
what  is  right.  It  was  thoughtless  of  me  to  ask 
Florence  to  come  down  again;  but  how  could 
any  one  help  loving  her? — she  is  such  a dear 
girl,  so  bright  and  clever  and  good-tempered; 
but  you,  Richard,  your  honor  is  at  stake.  Of 
course  you  have  said  nothing  to  her?  ” 

“To  Florence? — certainly  not,  mother.  How 
could  I?  But  there  is  not  another  word  to  be 
said.  You  must  make  some  excuse  for  me  to 
Florence;  and  I must  go.” 

No,  there  was  no  use  saying  anything  further; 
but  the  widow  could  not  help  adding,  almost  in 
an  undertone,  and  wistfully: 

“ If  things  could  only  have  been  different, 
Richard ! I cannot  help  thinking  that  Florence 
— well,  she  has  always  seemed  so  much  inter- 
ested in  you — and  she  would  always  talk  so  much 
about  you,  when  she  and  I were  alone  together; 


230 


NANCIEBEL 


and  you  yourself  see  how  you  are  never  out  of 
her  letters — ah,  well,  it  is  no  use  thinking  of 
what  is  impossible;  but  if  you  had  been  free, 
and  if  you  had  gone  to  your  cousin,  I don’t  think 
you  need  have  feared  her  answer ” 

He  turned  very  pale. 

“Don’t  say  that — you  have  no  right  to  say 
that,  mother!  ” 

“ It  is  but  a guess  on  my  part,”  she  said  sadly. 
“ But  I can  imagine  what  her  answer  would 
have  been.  And  then  to  think  of  her  in  this 
house  — as  my  daughter  and  companion  — so 
cheerful  and  self-reliant — so  merry  and  good- 
humored ” 

“Mother,”  said  he  almost  reproachfully,  “you 
seem  to  forget ! ” 

“ No,  I don’t  forget,”  she  answered  with  resig- 
nation. “ I was  thinking  of  what  might  have 
been;  but  I don’t  forget.  And  you  are  doing 
right,  Richard.  I will  make  excuses  to  Flor- 
ence for  you,  whether  you  go  abroad  or  down  to 
Bristol.  I suppose  she  will  not  suspect — no,  she 
cannot  suspect,  if  you  have  said  nothing  to  her.” 

Nor  was  this  the  only  act  of  renunciation  on 
Mr.  Richard’s  part.  Just  at  this  time  he  had  to 
go  up  to  London  for  a few  days  to  transact  some 
business  with  his  mother’s  lawyers;  but  he  did 
not  apprise  his  uncle  and  cousin  of  his  coming  to 
town,  nor  did  he  once  call  at  the  house  in  Mel- 


FLIGHT 


231 


bury  Road.  It  is  true  that,  during  these  few 
days,  he  found  his  way  a number  of  times  to 
that  neighborhood,  and  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion he  caught  a glimpse  of  Cousin  Floss,  as  she 
drove  up  in  the  barouche,  or  came  out  walking 
with  her  maid.  He  knew  he  had  no  right  to  do 
this  thing ; but  he  regarded  it  as  a sort  of  bid- 
ding good-by  to  a broken  fancy,  an  impossible 
dream.  To  whom  could  it  do  any  harm? 
Cousin  Floss  could  know  nothing  of  it — he  stu- 
diously kept  himself  concealed.  If  this  unspoken 
farewell  was  unduly  prolonged  (for  he  remained 
in  London  some  days  longer  than  was  necessary 
for  the  lawyers)  it  was  himself  who  was  being 
lacerated  by  its  pain.  It  did  not  matter  to 
Nancy;  marriage  would  condone  everything; 
she  had  no  part  or  concern  in  these  fantasies  of 
the  hour,  that  would  soon  be  forgotten  among 
the  actualities  of  life. 

By  the  time  Cousin  Floss’  visit  drew  near, 
Mr.  Richard  had  made  all  his  preparations.  He 
was  going  down  to  Bristol.  He  argued  with 
himself  that  being  constantly  in  the  same  neigh- 
borhood with  Nanciebel  would  keep  alive  in  his 
recollection  what  was  due  to  her;  and,  moreover, 
he  considered  that  in  the  circumstances  he  might 
fairly  ask  for  some  modification  of  the  arrange- 
ments that  had  been  arrived  at  in  family  conclave 
with  regard  to  his  visits.  Might  he  not  see 


232 


NANCIEBEL 


Nanciebel  once  a week,  or  perhaps  even  twice  a 
week — for  a single  hour?  Both  he  and  she  had 
hitherto  loyally  obeyed  the  conditions  that  had 
been  imposed ; might  not  these  be  relaxed  a lit- 
tle now?  It  was  not  as  a punishment,  but  as  a 
test,  that  this  separation  had  been  agreed  upon ; 
and  here  were  the  two  of  them,  after  the  lapse  of 
a considerable  time,  of  the  same  mind.  Mr. 
Richard  endeavored  to  extract  courage  and  hope 
for  the  future  from  these  wise  and  virtuous  re- 
flections ; but  it  was  with  rather  a heavy  heart 
that  he  drove  away  to  the  station,  on  the  day 
previous  to  Cousin  Floss’  arrival. 

Cousin  Floss,  when  she  stepped  out  of  the 
pony-chaise  on  the  following  afternoon,  and 
found  the  widow  awaiting  her  in  the  porch,  was 
in  the  highest  spirits,  and  her  always  bright 
enough  eyes  fairly  shone  with  gladness. 

“ Do  you  know,  Aunt  Cecilia,”  said  she  as  she 
hugged  and  kissed  the  little  woman,  “ it  is  just 
like  getting  home  again  to  see  your  dear  face 
once  more.  When  I saw  Thomas  and  the  pony 
and  the  carriage  at  the  station,  I said  to  myself, 
‘Ah,  now  you  will  soon  be  among  old  friends!’  ” 

“ Come  away  in,  dear,”  said  the  widow  quite  as 
affectionately,  and  she  took  the  girl  by  the  arm 
and  led  her  into  the  house.  “ I declare  it  does 
my  heart  good  to  hear  your  voice  again.” 

“And  papa  is  so  sorry  he  couldn’t  come  with 


FLIGHT 


233 


me  this  time,”  continued  this  blithe  young 
damsel — who  looked  all  round  the  drawing-room 
as  if  expecting  to  see  some  one — “ but  the  fact 
is,  he  has  found  himself  a good  deal  better  of 
late,  and  he  thinks  it  is  because  the  Kensington 
neighborhood  suits  him,  and  he  likes  the  house. 
The  garden  is  just  forty  yards  long ; so  twenty- 
two  times  up  and  down  makes  an  easily-measured 
half-mile ; and  he  can  get  his  regulation  quantity 
done  every  day  without  being  overlooked  by 
anybody.  I think  he  will  keep  that  house.  He 
hasn’t  been  looking  about  for  any  other.  But — 
but — Aunt  Cecilia,”  continued  Miss  Florence, 
again  glancing  back  into  the  hall,  “where  is 
Cousin  Dick?  ” 

Only  for  the  moment  did  the  widow  seem  a 
little  embarrassed. 

“He  has  had  to  go  away,  dear,”  she  said, 
striving  to  appear  quite  placid  and  unconcerned. 
“ He  was  so  very  sorry — I was  to  tell  you  how  sorry 
he  was.  Nothing  but  the  most  absolute  neces- 
sity compelled  him — you  may  be  sure  of  that.” 

“He  has  gone  away?”  said  Cousin  Floss,  in 
return,  with  a kind  of  puzzled,  uncertain  look. 
“ Where  has  he  gone,  Aunt  Cecilia?  ” 

“To  Bristol,  dear,”  answered  the  widow. 

“Oh,  to  Bristol!”  repeated  the  young  lady 
slowly.  “That  is  where  his  uncle  lives — his 
uncle  Charles — isn’t  it?  ” 


234 


NANCIEBEL 


And  when  Mr.  Richard’s  mother  signified  as- 
sent, the  young  lady  said  no  more.  She  seemed 
a trifle  thoughtful  as  she  went  away  to  her  own 
room  to  look  to  her  things;  but  when  she  ap- 
peared at  dinner  she  was  as  cheerful  as  ever; 
and  the  widow,  with  affectionate  eyes  and  many 
a kindly  speech,  showed  how  she  rejoiced  to 
have  this  pleasant  companion  once  more  with 
her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHECKMATE 

When  Mr.  Richard  arrived  in  Bristol  he  put 
up  at  a hotel  overlooking  College  Green ; but  he 
had  no  intention  of  going  at  once  to  Holiwell 
Vicarage ; he  wanted  time  to  think.  For  indeed 
he  was  as  one  distracted;  wild  projects  flashed 
through  his  brain — in  a sort  of  restless  and  reck- 
less despair ; one  moment  he  would  be  for  con- 
fessing the  whole  truth  to  Nanciebel,  and  throw- 
ing himself  on  her  mercy ; the  next  he  would  be 
for  an  immediate  marriage,  as  the  one  definite 
settlement  of  all  these  perplexities.  He  went 
out  and  wandered  through  the  streets  of  the 
town,  seeing  hardly  anything.  He  followed  the 


CHECKMATE 


235 


Whiteladies’  Road  until  he  emerged  on  Durd- 
ham  Down ; but  the  fair  English  landscape,  all 
shining  in  the  white  light  of  the  spring,  brought 
no  joy  to  his  heart.  When  he  ought  to  have 
been  thinking  of  Nanciebel,  and  of  his  visit  of 
the  morrow,  he  was  in  reality  wondering  what 
his  cousin  Florence  had  said  when  she  discovered 
he  was  gone ; he  was  picturing  her  walking  in 
the  garden  with  the  little  widow;  he  could  see 
her  driving  in  to  Stratford,  to  make  her  after- 
noon purchases  there.  And  what  was  that  his 
mother  had  hinted — that  if  in  other  circum- 
stances he  had  made  bold  to  speak  to  Florence 
Kingston,  he  need  not  have  feared  her  answer? 
That  was  not  even  to  be  thought  of ! How  could 
the  widow  know,  in  any  case?  It  was  but  the 
fond  partiality  of  a mother.  He  had  to  turn  from 
these  fruitless  and  agonizing  speculations  over 
what  might  have  been  to  the  obvious  duty  that 
lay  before  him ; and  again  and  again  he  strove 
to  convince  himself  that  if  he  and  Nanciebel 
were  once  married,  there  would  be  an  end  to  all 
these  hopeless  and  futile  regrets.  He  had  been 
bewildered  by  a brilliant  and  fascinating  appari- 
tion. Nancy  and  her  quiet  ways  would  win  in 
the  end.  The  commonplace  security  of  ordinary 
life  was  sufficient  for  most  folk.  Vain  dreams, 
farewell! — here  were  peace  and  content,  and  the 
even  tenor  of  one’s  way. 


236 


NANCIEBEL 


Next  morning  he  had  summoned  up  courage, 
and  even  formed  some  inchoate  plans;  about 
eleven  he  started  off  and  drove  out  to  Holiwell 
Vicarage.  Arrived  there,  the  housekeeper  in- 
formed him  that  his  uncle  had  just  gone  off  to 
see  some  old  woman  in  the  neighborhood ; that 
the  young  ladies  were  at  their  drawing  lessons ; 
and  that  Miss  Marlow  was  in  the  garden.  Ac- 
cordingly, Mr.  Richard  replied  that  he  would 
himself  go  and  seek  Miss  Marlow ; and  presently 
he  had  stepped  forth  into  the  outer  air. 

He  encountered  Nanciebel  rather  suddenly — 
she  was  coming  through  the  archway  in  the 
walk  of  yew — and  the  instant  she  caught  sight 
of  him  she  stopped,  looking  startled  and  fright- 
ened. 

“ What  is  it,  Richard?  ” she  said,  when  he  went 
up  to  her. 

And  he  was  amazed  also.  She  seemed  to 
shrink  back  from  him,  as  if  dreading  what  he 
had  to  say.  Yet  was  not  this  in  some  measure  a 
relief?  If  she  had  flown  to  him  with  love  and 
joy  in  her  eyes,  how  could  he  have  played  the 
hypocrite  ? 

“Well,  I have  come  to  see  you,”  he  said. 

“Yes,”  she  made  answer  rather  breathlessly,  * 
and  she  kept  staring  at  him  with  anxious  scru- 
tiny, “yes — but — but  is  that  all?  ” 

“I  don’t  understand  you,”  he  made  answer, 


CHECKMATE 


237 


still  wondering.  “ I — I have  no  bad  news,  if  that 
is  what  you  fear — nor  any  news,  indeed.” 

“Oh,”  she  said,  with  her  face  lightening  con- 
siderably, “it  is  merely  a visit?  There  is  noth- 
ing— nothing  of  importance?  You  see,”  she 
continued,  as  if  eager  to  explain,  “ I did  not  ex- 
pect you,  Richard — you  sent  no  letter — and  you 
have  come  long  before  the  usual  time.  I was 
almost  afraid  you  might  have  heard — I mean 
that  there  might  be  some  bad  news,  or  some  oc- 
casion for  your  coming  so  unexpectedly.  And 
how  is  your  mother?  It  was  so  kind  of  her  to 
send  me  Tennyson’s  last  volume — to  keep  my 
set  complete.  Aren’t  the  flowers  here  pretty? — 
the  spring-time  is  always  so  delicious.  And  when 
are  you  going  back  to  Stratford,  Richard?  ” 

He  could  not  make  Nanciebel  out  at  all.  Ap- 
parently she  was  most  desirous  to  be  friendly 
and  complaisant;  yet  his  presence  seemed  to 
embarrass  her.  She  was  nervous — constrained 
— her  eyes  watchful  and  furtive;  this  was  not 
the  Nanciebel  who  had  clung  closely  to  him  as 
they  walked  up  and  down  the  little  court-yard, 
under  the  stars.  Nevertheless,  he  was  here  to 
perform  a duty. 

“Yes,  I have  come  before  the  proper  time, 
Nancy,”  said  he,  ignoring  her  last  question, 
“and  it  is  to  put  a proposal  before  you,  and  be- 
fore my  uncle.  This  separation  that  was  agreed 


238 


NANCIEBEL 


upon — well,  you  have  complained  of  it  before, 
and  of  your  loneliness  here,  and  I don’t  wonder 
at  it — this  separation  has  lasted  long  enough,  it 
seems  to  me.  I think  if  we  could  get  everybody 
to  agree,  we  might  as  well  be  married  at 
once ” 

And  again  she  regarded  him  with  a sort  of 
apprehensive  look,  which  she  instantly  con- 
cealed. 

“Oh,  do  you  think  so,  Richard?”  she  said  in 
an  off-hand  way.  “ For  I am  hardly  of  your 
opinion.  I think  that  an  arrangement  that  was 
agreed  to  by  everybody  should  be  carried  out; 
and  then,  you  see,  no  one  will  be  able  to  com- 
plain. It  was  to  be  a trial ; and  who  could  tell 
what  was  to  happen  when  it  began,  and  who 
can  tell  what  may  happen  before  it  ends?  For 
you  see  people  are  so  different,  Richard,”  con- 
tinued this  profound  philosopher  — and  she 
seemed  anxious  to  talk  away  this  project  into 
nothingness.  “There  are  some  who  don’t  care 
about  being  petted,  who  are  independent,  and 
self-sufficing — and  they  are  mostly  men;  and 
there  are  others  who  like  to  be  petted  and  made 
much  of — and  they  are  mostly  women.  Very 
well,  when  there  is  such  a difference  between  dis- 
positions, isn’t  it  wise  that  they  should  be  tested 
by  time ” 

“ You  didn’t  talk  that  way  once,”  said  he,  with 


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239 


a touch  rather  of  surprise  than  of  actual  disap- 
pointment or  chagrin. 

“Oh,  well,  perhaps  not,  for  I was  younger 
then,”  remarked  this  sage  person;  “and  then 
being  sent  away  from  all  one’s  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances was  pretty  trying  at  first.  How- 
ever, I don’t  complain  now.  No,  I think  it  was 
wise  on  the  part  of  your  mother ; and  I am  sure 
I thank  her.  And  when  do  you  go  back  to 
Stratford,  Richard?” 

He  was  completely  nonplussed.  Here  was 
the  sacrifice  he  had  nobly  determined  to  make 
put  aside  as  a thing  of  naught;  while  he  was 
practically  invited  to  return  home  forthwith ; 
and  that  he  could  not  do.  Florence  Kingston 
was  there — whom  he  dared  not  meet.  Besides, 
how  could  he  go  away  leaving  the  whole  matter 
as  it  stood  before,  surrounded  by  all  kinds  of 
distracting  uncertainties?  It  was  for  Nancie- 
bel’s  own  sake  that  he  must  persevere. 

“To  Stratford?”  he  repeated.  “Well,  under- 
stand, Nancy,  I did  not  think  you  would  agree 
to  this  without  some  coaxing  and  persuasion — 
and  I shall  have  my  uncle  to  talk  over  as  well — 
so  I have  come  down  to  Bristol  for  a little  while, 
and  I am  staying  at  a hotel  there.” 

“Oh,  for  some  time?  ” she  said,  “you  are  go- 
ing to  remain  here,  Richard?”  She  was  silent 
for  a second  or  two.  “ Well,  it  is  so  sudden — so 


240 


NANCIEBEL 


bewildering.  You  cannot  expect  me  to  say  yes 
just  at  once,  even  if  I knew  that  your  uncle  and 
your  mother  would  consent.  It  is  so  grave  a 
step.  But — to-day  is  Saturday;  you  will  give 
me  till  to-morrow?  Will  you  come  out  to-mor- 
row afternoon,  Richard,  and  then  I may  be  able 
to  say  something  more  definite?  Yes,  I will,  I 
promise ; to-morrow  afternoon  you  shall  have  my 
answer ” 

“But  I don’t  want  to  press  you,  Nanciebel,” 
he  urged  again ; for  he  could  not  in  the  least  un- 
derstand what  all  this  meant.  “ I came  down  to 
Bristol  for  the  very  purpose  of  talking  the  whole 
thing  over,  and  showing  how  it  would  be  better 
and  safer  and  more  satisfactory  for  every  one  if 
we  could  arrange  for  this  time  of  probation  to 
cease.  Who  knows  what  may  happen?  And 
you  may  be  doubtful  and  reluctant,  of  course; 
for  it'  is  a grave  step,  as  you  say;  but  I am  sure 
it  is  the  best  thing  to  do ; and  then  there  will  be 
no  further  misgivings  or  trusting  to  chance.” 

It  was  hardly  the  impassioned  pleading  of  a 
lover;  but  Nanciebel  did  not  seem  to  look  for 
that.  She  merely  begged  him  again  to  give  her 
till  the  following  afternoon,  and  she  appeared  to 
be  immensely  relieved — and  grateful — when  he 
assented.  Nor  did  she  beg  him  to  stay  until  his 
uncle  should  return  and  his  cousins  be  free. 
She  even  hinted  that  it  might  be  more  prudent 


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241 


for  her  to  say  nothing  of  this  proposal  until  he 
himself  should  bring  it  forward  on  the  next  day. 
In  the  mean  time  she  bade  him  good-by  with  a 
very  pleasant  and  affectionate  look ; and  he  re- 
turned to  his  hotel  in  Bristol,  and  to  aimless 
cogitations  which  led  to  confusion  rather  than  to 
any  enlightenment. 

But  what  happened  next  day  drove  away  those 
puzzled  surmises  and  substituted  for  them 
amazement  and  alarm.  About  half-past  one 
o’clock  his  uncle  drove  up  to  the  hotel,  and 
came  into  the  coffee-room,  where  Mr.  Richard 
happened  to  be  standing  at  the  window.  The 
nervous  little  clergyman  was  very  much  excited ; 
but  he  had  to  speak  in  a low  voice,  for  there 
were  some  people  seated  at  the  table  at  lunch. 

“Richard,”  said  he  in  a hurried  undertone, 
“do  you  know  what  the  meaning  of  this  is? 
Miss  Marlow  has  gone.” 

“Gone?”  his  nephew  repeated,  with  staring 
eyes.  “Gone  where?” 

“ I do  not  know ; she  has  left  the  house. 
This  morning  she  complained  of  headache,  and 
decided  to  remain  in  her  own  room ; then  when 
we  returned  from  morning  service,  we  discovered 
that  a cab  had  been  brought  out  between  eleven 
and  twelve,  and  that  she  had  left,  taking  all  her 
things  with  her.  And  here  is  a letter  we  found 

lying  for  you.” 

11 


242 


NANCIEBEL 


“Yes,  but  what  did  she  say  when  she  went?  ” 
his  nephew  demanded  in  blank  amazement. 
“There  must  have  been  somebody  in  the  house. 
What  explanation  did  she  give?  Where  did  she 
say  she  was  going?  ” 

“Not  a word  to  anybody!  Perhaps  you  will 
understand  from  that  letter,”  said  the  clergy- 
man, looking  at  the  enigmatic  envelope. 

Mechanically  Mr.  Richard  broke  the  seal ; he 
was  thinking  of  her  strange  behavior  on  the 
previous  day.  Nor  did  this  carefully  written 
epistle  afford  him  any  satisfactory  elucidation. 

“ Saturday  Night. 

“ Dear  Richard  : By  the  time  you  get  this 
note,  I shall  have  escaped  from  a position  which 
was  only  embarrassing  to  you  and  to  me,  and  to 
others.  I shall  always  appreciate  your  kind- 
ness— and  never , never  forget  it;  but  what  you 
wished  was  not  to  be.  I had  intended  telling  you 
by  degrees  how  I had  come  to  this  resolution ; 
but  your  sudden  appearance  here  to-day  has  pre- 
cipitated matters ; and  to-morrow  I shall  take  the 
step  I have  long  meditated — and  I am  sure  it  will 
be  better  for  us  all.  And  I am  sure  your  mother 
will  be  glad.  I shall  always  remember  with 
gratitude  the  sacrifices  she  was  ready  to  make ; 
and  when  I read  ‘The  Miller’s  Daughter’  I shall 
always  think  of  her  with  respect  and  affection ; but 


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243 


she  did  not  consider,  when  she  gave  me  Tenny- 
son’s poems,  and  hoped  they  would  be  my  con- 
stant teachers,  that  there  was  another  one  far 
more  applicable  to  my  station.  I refer  to  ‘The 
Lord  of  Burleigh.’  Do  you  remember  those 
significant  lines : 

“ ‘But  a trouble  weigh’d  upon  her. 

And  perplex’d  her,  night  and  morn, 

With  the  burden  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born.’ 

Ah,  if  that  poor  lady  had  only  known  in  time ! — 
then  she  might  have  avoided  all  her  misery,  as  I 
hope  to  do.  For  why  should  I aspire  to  a dignity 
for  which  I am  unfitted?  Your  cousins  here 
have  been  very  kind ; but  all  the  same  it  has 
been  impressed  on  me  every  day  that  I was  not 
born  in  the  purple.  I am  not  ashamed  of  my 
humble  origin,  for 

“ ‘ Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood;  ’ 

but  it  is  better  for  all  that  I should  abandon  a 
fond  dream,  and  accept  life  as  it  is.  Dear  Rich- 
ard, you  have  given  me  several  little  presents 
from  time  to  time,  and  these  I wish  to  return ; 
and  I will  send  them  to  you  by  a safe  hand.  If 
you  will  allow  me,  I will  keep  your  photograph — 
for  one  need  not  forget  an  old  friend , whatever 
trials  and  hardships  the  world  may  have  for  us. 


244 


NANCIEBEL 


Farewell  forever,  dear  Richard,  from  your  still 
affectionate  and  grateful 

“ Nancy. 

“ P.  S. — I will  send  you  the  things  in  a day  or 
two.” 

Mr.  Richard  handed  the  letter  to  the  clergy- 
man, but  not  in  silence. 

“Why,”  he  exclaimed  angrily,  as  his  uncle 
glanced  over  the  pages,  “ if  that  is  not  a piece  of 
studied  hypocrisy,  it  is  the  writing  of  an  abso- 
lute fool!  ‘Born  in  the  purple!’ — where  did  she 
pick  up  a phrase  like  that? — does  she  consider 
that  I have  been  born  in  the  purple  ? — does  she 
suppose  that  1 was  going  to  bestow  a coronet  on 
her?  ” 

“Richard,”  said  the  clergyman  gently,  “you 
must  remember  that  girls  in  her  position  like  to 
write  like  that — they  have  learned  it  out  of  penny 
romances — they  think  it  fine.  I should  say  the 
letter  was  sincere  enough,  even  if  the  terms  of 
it  strike  you  as  being  artificial.  And  the  fact 
remains  that  she  has  left  the  vicarage.” 

“ Precisely!  ” said  the  young  man,  who  did  not 
at  all  rejoice  in  the  freedom  that  had  been  thus 
suddenly  thrust  upon  him  ; for  he  considered  that 
this  was  only  some  kind  of  incomprehensible 
freak  on  the  part  of  Nancy,  and  that,  after  an 
immensity  of  trouble  and  annoyance,  they  would 


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245 


all  of  them  find  themselves  precisely  in  the  same 
straits  as  before.  “ And  now  we  shall  have  to 
hunt  her  out,  and  convince  her  that  her  heroic 
renunciation  is  out  of  place ! I suppose  we  shall 
have  to  advertise,  ‘Come  back  to  your  sorrowing 
friends ! ’ Upon  my  word,  it's  too  bad ! We  shall 
have  all  this  trouble  for  nothing.  I suppose  she 
wouldn’t  go  to  Stratford,  and  confess  to  her  rel- 
atives that  she  could  not  bear  the  burden  of  the 
honor  that  was  destined  for  her.  That  would 
not  be  romantic  enough ! She  will  wait  until  the 
whole  of  our  family  go  to  her  as  a deputation, 
and  beg  her  on  their  knees  to  accept  the  coro- 
net! ” 

“You  are  angry  and  impatient,  Richard,”  the 
clergyman  said  quietly.  “ But  there  is  more  in 
that  letter  than  you  seem  to  see.  It  has  been 
written  with  deliberation;  it  has  been  thought 
over  for  some  time  back.  It  is  no  sudden  freak. 
Now  come  away  out  with  me  to  Holiwell,  and  we 
will  see  if  we  cannot  find  out  something  about 
this  very  odd  affair.  Gertrude  and  Laura  may 
help  us.  And  we  are  bound  to  make  inquiries — 
until  we  know  that  the  girl  is  in  safety;  she 
cannot  be  allowed  to  vanish  into  space  in  this 
fashion.” 

As  they  drove  away  out  to  the  vicarage,  Mr. 
Richard  did  not  speak  a word — his  brain  was 
busy  with  all  manner  of  conjectures  and  wild  spec- 


246 


NANCIEBEL 


illations.  Supposing,  now,  that  he  were  to  take 
Nancy  at  her  word?  Of  her  own  free  will  she 
had  withdrawn  from  the  engagement  which  of 
late  he  had  felt  as  a very  millstone  round  his 
neck.  No  doubt  his  word  was  given  to  her;  but 
here  she  had  in  set  terms  renounced  her  claims ; 
and  why  should  he  not  accept  her  renunciation  ? 
But,  even  as  he  argued  with  himself  in  this  way, 
he  felt  it  was  all  impossible.  He  could  not  be  so 
mean  as  to  take  advantage  of  a fit  of  temper  or 
some  perverse  and  inexplicable  whim.  He  knew 
Nanciebel ; knew  her  contradictory  moods ; knew 
how  affectionate  she  could  be  at  one  moment, 
and  how  petulant  and  wayward  the  next ; and  he 
could  not  make  this  fantastic  letter  an  excuse  for 
backing  out  of  an  engagement  to  which  his  honor 
was  pledged.  How  could  she  mean  what  she 
said  in  this  ridiculous  message  of  farewell? 
When  a girl  took  one  of  the  most  serious  steps  pos- 
sible in  her  life,  she  was  not  likely  to  be  quoting 
poetry  and  using  sham  literary  phrases.  Perhaps 
(this  was  his  final  conclusion)  Nancy  had  been 
finding  her  life  at  the  vicarage  too  dull  and  for- 
lorn, and  had  suddenly  resolved  to  break  the 
monotony  of  it  with  a romantic  episode. 

Now,  no  sooner  had  the  good  vicar  begun  to 
question  his  daughters  about  this  mysterious 
thing  that  had  just  happened,  than  it  became 
abundantly  evident  that  they  knew  a good  deal 


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247 


more  than  they  were  willing  to  admit.  Gertrude 
looked  at  Laura,  and  Laura  looked  at  Gertrude ; 
and  both  were  mute.  Clearly  they  did  not  like 
to  “tell.”  Nancy  had  been  their  comrade  in  a 
measure ; perhaps  she  had  even  asked  them  to 
keep  her  secret ; and  here  was  their  cousin  Rich- 
ard— how  could  they  say  anything  that  would 
lead  him  to  doubt  the  constancy  of  his  betrothed  ? 
And  yet  when  the  vicar,  getting  a bit  of  a clew, 
began  to  press  home  his  questions,  it  seemed  as 
if  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  a frank  avowal. 
Gertrude,  as  the  elder,  came  in  for  most  of  the 
cross-examination;  and  at  length,  with  many 
hesitations  and  shy  glances  at  Mr.  Richard,  and 
appealing  looks  to  her  father,  she  allowed  them 
to  construct  what  story  they  might  out  of  the  fol- 
lowing fragments  and  hints. 

Nancy  had  always  been  fond  of  wandering 
about  in  the  garden — particularly  when  Gertrude 
and  Laura  were  at  their  morning  exercises,  and 
she  was  left  alone.  She  had  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Stapleton’s  head  gardener — as  Rich- 
ard knew — a most  respectable  and  well-educated 
and  well-mannered  young  man.  “Mr.”  Bruce, 
as  Nancy  always  called  him,  was  very  kind  to 
her,  instructing  her  in  botany,  and  lending  her 
books.  Other  books  besides  botanical  ones,  too, 
for  Mr.  Bruce  was  a well-read  young  man,  and 
had  quite  a library.  Nancy  seemed  to  have  a 


248 


NANCIEBEL 


great  admiration  for  the  young  Scotchman.  She 
was  always  talking  about  him  and  contrasting 
him  with  others.  She  had  cut  his  portrait  out 
of  a horticultural  journal  in  which  it  had  ap- 
peared, along  with  a biographical  sketch,  and  a 
list  of  all  the  prizes  he  had  won.  Gertrude  had 
even  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  Nancy  about 
her  partiality  for  this  young  man — seeing  that 
she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Cousin  Richard 
— whereupon  Nancy  had  laughingly  replied  that 
she  liked  to  be  appreciated  by  some  one.  Nancy 
had  shown  her  a photograph  of  the  gardens  at 
Beever  Towers,  and  pointed  out  the  charmingly 
surrounded  cottage  which  Mr.  Bruce  was  to  oc- 
cupy when  he  left  Somersetshire  for  Yorkshire. 
That  the  young  Scotchman  and  Nancy  were  in 
constant  correspondence,  Gertrude  had  to  admit 
that  she  knew ; but  she  did  not  consider  it  her 
duty  to  say  anything — she  thought  it  would  be 
treacherous,  she  said. 

“ But  Bruce  left  Holiwell  a fortnight  ago!  ” ex- 
claimed the  vicar,  breaking  in  upon  the  shy  con- 
fessions. 

“Yes,  papa/’  said  Miss  Gertrude,  “but  he  has 
not  gone  to  Yorkshire,  for  I have  seen  him  twice 
during  last  week.” 

“And  I saw  him  yesterday,”  observed  Miss 
Laura,  with  downcast  eyes. 

“Yesterday? — where?”  demanded  her  cousin 


CHECKMATE  249 

Richard,  who  had  sat  silent  and  bewildered  all 
this  time. 

“At  the  foot  of  Crossways  Lane  by  the  pond,” 
said  the  younger  daughter ; and  then  she  added 
with  some  hesitation,  “And — and  Nancy  was 
with  him.” 

“Really,  I am  more  than  surprised,”  said  the 
vicar  with  unusual  emphasis,  “at  such  conduct 
on  the  part  of  that  young  man.  I had  always 
considered  him  a most  respectable,  well-bred, 
honorable  young  fellow — indeed,  I had  a very 
great  regard  for  him,  even  when  he  and  I dif- 
fered in  our  political  views ; but  that  he  could 
have  stooped  to  this  clandestine  correspond- 
ence  ” 

“Papa,”  said  Gertrude  (who  also  seemed  to 
regard  the  young  Scotchman  with  favor,  and  was 
modestly  anxious  to  put  in  this  meek  apology  for 
him),  “don’t  you  think  he  may  have  been  wait- 
ing for  an  opportunity  of  coming  to  speak  to  you? 
Perhaps  he  may  have  wished  to  have  all  his 
affairs  in  Yorkshire  settled  first.” 

“ Oh,  if  there  has  been  any  hole-and-corner  bus- 
iness in  the  affair,  be  sure  it  was  Nancy’s  own 
doing!  ” said  Mr.  Richard  scornfully  (alas,  how 
inconstant  are  the  hearts  of  men! — had  he  no 
recollection  of  certain  moonlight  strolls  up  and 
down  a hushed  little  court-yard — a court-yard  so 

hushed  that  one  could  almost  in  the  darkness 
11* 


250 


NANCIEBEL 


have  heard  poor  Nanciebel’s  heart  throbbing  for 
very  joy?).  “She  was  always  for  romance,  and 
mystery,  and  secrecy ; and  I have  no  doubt  she 
persuaded  this  fellow  into  concealing  the  whole 
affair  until  they  could  declare  themselves  mar- 
ried. Or  perhaps  they  are  married  already? — 
that  would  be  just  like  Nancy.  And  now  I know 
why  she  looked  so  frightened  when  I came  here 
yesterday ” 

“Cousin  Richard,”  said  Gertrude  rather  pite- 
ously, “ I hope  you  will  not  think  I had  any  part 
in  this.  I could  not  help  seeing  what  was  going 
on,  and  perhaps  I ought  to  have  told  papa,  or 
written  to  you ; but  then  I thought  it  would  be 
dishonorable.  Many  a time  I have  been  sorry 
for  you,  and  thought  you  ought  to  know.” 

“Oh,  but  look  here,  Gertrude,”  he  exclaimed, 
“you  mustn’t  blame  yourself  at  all — you  mustn’t 
imagine  any  harm  has  been  done  to  me.  Why, 
if  what  you  suggest  has  all  come  true — if  Nancy 
has  gone  and  got  married  or  is  about  to  get 
married — that  would  be  for  me ” 

But  he  paused  and  was  silent.  The  future 
was  vague  and  uncertain;  these  wild  and  daz- 
zling hopes  were  not  to  be  spoken  of  as  yet. 
Nevertheless,  the  two  girls  could  gather  from 
his  face  that  he  was  in  nowise  disappointed  or 
depressed  by  this  sudden  news ; he  only  insisted, 
in  a matter-of-fact  kind  of  way,  on  the  neces- 


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251 


sity  of  getting  to  know  of  Nancy’s  whereabouts 
and  immediate  prospects. 

He  remained  to  mid-day  dinner  at  the  vicar- 
age; he  went  with  his  cousins  to  evening  ser- 
vice ; he  had  some  bit  of  supper  with  them  later 
on  ere  he  set  out  to  walk  into  Bristol.  And  now 
that  he  had  almost  convinced  himself  that  his 
relationship  with  Nancy  was  really  finally  and 
irretrievably  broken,  he  began  to  think  of  her 
with  gentleness — not  with  any  anger  or  desire 
for  revenge.  She  had  been  a most  affectionate 
and  loving  kind  of  creature;  too  loving  and 
affectionate,  perhaps ; she  could  not  suffer  being 
alone ; she  must  have  some  one  to  cling  to,  some 
one  to  pet  her  and  “be  good  to  her.”  Well, 
well,  he  had  nothing  to  reproach  her  with,  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  along  the  solitary 
highway.  When  Nanciebel’s  soft  dark  eyes  had 
looked  into  his,  they  had  been  honest  enough  at 
the  time ; it  was  her  too  tender  heart  that  had 
played  her  false ; she  was  hardly  to  blame,  for 
how  can  one  alter  one’s  temperament?  And 
he  understood  that  letter  now.  It  was  not  alto- 
gether artificial.  Perhaps  there  was  a little  sen- 
timental regret  in  her  bidding  him  good-by; 
and  perhaps  she  thought  she  could  best  express 
that  in  the  language  of  books.  And  if  Nancy 
wished  to  betray  a sweet  humility — or  even  to 
convey  a subtle  little  dose  of  flattery — in  talk- 


252 


NANCIEBEL 


ing  of  the  honor  of  the  position  that  had  been 
designed  for  her,  why  should  he  be  scornful  of 
these  innocent  girlish  wiles?  Poor  Nanciebel! 
She  had  been  kind  in  those  bygone  days;  he 
hoped  she  would  be  happy,  and  run  no  more 
risks  of  separation. 

But  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  his  next  meet- 
ing with  Nancy.  He  had  spent  all  the  Monday 
morning  in  aimlessly  wandering  about,  discuss- 
ing with  himself  the  various  possible  ways  and 
means  of  getting  into  communication  with  that 
wayward  and  errant  damsel ; and  at  last  he  was 
returning  to  his  hotel,  about  lunch-time,  when 
behold!  here  was  Nanciebel  herself,  her  hand 
on  the  arm  of  a tall  and  rather  good-looking 
young  fellow  of  grave  aspect  and  quiet  de- 
meanor. 

“O  Mr.  Richard!”  said  Nanciebel,  with  her 
face  flushing  rosily  and  her  eyes  shining  gladly, 
“this  is  just  what  I have  been  hoping  for!  I 
knew  we  should  meet  you  somewhere ! Will  you 
let  me  introduce  my  husband? — you’ve  met  be- 
fore.” 

The  two  men  bowed,  and  regarded  each  other 
with  a somewhat  cold  and  repellant  scrutiny; 
which  could  tell  how  the  other  was  going  to  take 
this  odd  situation  of  affairs?  But  it  was  Nancy, 
with  her  eager  volubility,  who  got  over  the  awk- 
wardness of  the  meeting. 


CHECKMATE 


253 


"Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Richard,  for  I made  sure 
you  would  be  glad  when  you  heard  the  news.  I 
have  seen  for  many  a day  that  you  wished  our 
engagement  broken  off — I could  read  it  in  every 
line  of  your  letters ; but  I wanted  you  to  speak 
first.  Then  you  frightened  me  on  Saturday — did 
you  really  mean  what  you  said? — or  what  was 
your  intention?  Anyway,  it’s  all  right  now,  and 
you  are  free;  and  now  James  and  I can  make 
any  apologies  that  are  necessary  for  the  conceal- 
ment that  has  been  going  on.  Oh,  but  that  was 
all  my  doing,  Mr.  Richard — indeed  it  was!  I 
declare  it  was!  James  was  for  going  direct  to 
your  uncle  and  explaining  everything ; and  I said 
that  would  only  provoke  a tremendous  family 
disturbance — that  it  would  be  far  better  for  us  to 
get  married,  and  then  no  objection  could  be 
taken.  Yes,  we  were  married  this  morning,” 
continued  Nanciebel,  with  a becoming  modesty, 
“and  Mr. and  Mrs. Stephens,  with  whom  I am 
staying,  have  gone  away  home,  and  so  James  and 
I thought  we  might  come  for  a little  walk.  I am 
so  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Richard ” 

But  here  Mr.  Richard,  who  had  been  consider- 
ably flurried  by  this  unexpected  encounter,  and 
by  Nancy’s  rapid  confessions,  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. 

“But  look  here,”  said  he  boldly,  “where’s  the 
wedding-breakfast?  ” 


254 


NANCIEBEL 


“Oh,”  said  Nancy  with  another  blush,  “the 
Stephenses  are  to  have  a few  friends  in  the  even- 
ing ; but  I think  we  shall  leave  by  the  afternoon 
train  for  London ” 

“Very  well,”  said  Mr.  Richard,  “but  in  the 
mean  time?  See,  there  is  my  hotel — suppose 
3^ou  and  your  husband  come  in  and  have  lunch 
with  me — let  it  be  a wedding-breakfast,  if  you 
like.  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Bruce?  ” 

An  odd  kind  of  half-embarrassed  smile  came 
into  the  young  Scotchman’s  grave  and  handsome 
face. 

“ I have  not  much  experience  in  such  matters,” 
he  answered  in  his  slow,  incisive  way,  as  he 
looked  at  his  bride  with  affectionate  eyes ; “ but 
I should  think  in  such  a case,  it  would  be  for  the 
young  lady  to  say  what  should  be  done.” 

“Oh,  then,  I say  yes!”  cried  Nanciebel  in  an 
instant.  “ Oh,  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Richard ! 
for  you  know  I wouldn’t  for  the  world  have 
any  disagreement  or  ill-feeling  remain  behind ; 
and  now  I can  write  down  to  Stratford  that  you 
are  quite  good  friends  with  us,  and  I hope  you’ll 
tell  your  mother  so,  and  your  uncle,  and  Ger- 
trude and  Laura.  It  is  so  very,  very  kind  of 
you,  Mr.  Richard!  ” again  said  Nanciebel,  almost 
with  tears  of  gratitude  in  her  soft  dark  eyes. 

The  improvised  wedding-breakfast  was  a great 
success ; and  Mr.  Richard  played  the  part  of  host 


CHECKMATE 


255 


with  a quite  royal  magnificence.  The  young 
Scotchman  was  throughout  grave  and  self-pos- 
sessed, but  not  taciturn;  when  he  did  speak, 
there  was  generally  something  in  what  he  said. 
But  indeed,  it  was  Nancy  who  did  all  the  talk- 
ing; chattering  about  everything  and  nothing, 
and  always  turning  for  confirmation  (but  not 
waiting  for  it)  to  James.  And  then  again,  when 
it  was  time  for  them  to  go,  Mr.  Richard  accom- 
panied them  into  the  hall,  and  had  a cab  called 
for  them ; and  as  he  bade  them  good-by  on  the 
wide  stone  steps  outside,  Nancy  took  his  hand 
and  pressed  it  warmly,  and  looked  into  his  eyes 
almost  as  once  she  had  looked,  and  murmured 
in  a soft  undertone : 

“ You  have  been  kind ! ” 

Such  was  the  fashion  of  their  parting;  but 
Nancy’s  eyes  were  still  once  more  turned  back 
to  him,  and  she  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  she 
and  her  husband  drove  away. 

Now,  it  was  about  a fortnight  afterward — per- 
haps a day  or  two  less — that  Mrs.  Kingston  and 
her  niece  Florence  were  in  the  little  boudoir  at 
Woodend;  and,  strange  to  say,  the  latter  was 
down  on  her  knees  with  her  head  buried  in  the 
widow’s  lap,  as  if  she  had  been  making  confes- 
sion. 

“And  may  I call  you  mother?  ” was  the  con- 


256 


NANCIEBEL 


elusion  of  her  tale,  uttered  in  only  a half-heard 
voice. 

“ Indeed,  you  will  be  the  dearest  daughter  I 
could  have  wished  for,”  said  the  widow,  most 
fervently,  as  she  stroked  the  pretty  hair  with 
both  her  hands.  “ I never  thought  to  see  this 
day ; it  is  everything  I could  have  wished  for, 
dear  Florence.” 

“You  are  not  angry,  then?  ” said  the  fair  pen- 
itent, without  looking  up.  “ But  I shall  never 
believe  you  care  anything  about  me  until  you  call 
me  Floss.” 

“ I will  call  you  anything  you  like,  my  dear- 
est,” said  the  widow,  again  clasping  and  petting 
the  pretty  head  that  lay  bent  and  humbled  before 
her. 

Then  Cousin  Floss  arose.  Humility  with  her 
could  only  be  a passing  mood.  She  seated  her- 
self next  the  little  widow,  and  put  her  arm  with- 
in hers. 

“ What  do  you  think  papa  will  say?  ” she  asked. 

“ Well,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Kingston,  “ I think 
I know  what  he  will  say ; but  if  you  are  at  all 
afraid,  I’ll  go  into  the  garden  and  ask  him  my- 
self— this  very  moment.” 

“Will  you?”  said  Cousin  Floss,  with  shining 
eyes.  “ And  mind  you  let  him  know  that  Rich- 
ard has  told  me  everything — everything.  Papa 
knew  about — about  Miss  Nancy,  didn’t  he?  ” 


CHECKMATE 


257 


In  a second  or  two  the  widow  was  in  the  gar- 
den, where  Uncle  Alexander,  with  his  quick, 
shuffling  little  step,  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
measured  path.  She  told  him  her  story.  Uncle 
Alexander’s  instant  question  was: 

“Well,  how  much  had  you  to  pay?  ” 

“ I don’t  understand  you,  ” the  widow  said,  truly 
enough. 

“ How  much  had  you  to  pay?  ” the  hypochon- 
driac repeated  testily  (for  he  had  been  inter- 
rupted, and  had  forgotten  where  he  was  in  his 
prescribed  laps).  “What  money  did  you  give 
the  girl?  It  was  my  proposal  originally;  I must 
reimburse  you.  I dare  say  you  gave  her  far  too 
much;  but  never  mind;  I’m  glad  Floss  is  going 
to  be  taken  off  my  hands  — she  worries  me. 
What  money  had  you  to  pay?  ” 

“ Why,  we  never  offered  Nancy  a halfpenny ! ” 
Mrs.  Kingston  exclaimed,  but  she  was  far  too 
happy  to  take  offence.  “We  could  not!  She 
married  a young  man  in  a very  good  position,  of 
excellent  character,  and  with  the  most  favorable 
prospects.  But  I will  say  this,  Uncle  Alexander,  ” 
continued  the  widow,  grown  bold.  “ If  you  are 
generously  minded  about  her,  give  me  a certain 
sum,  and  I will  add  a similar  amount ; and  when 
Richard  and  dear  Florence  go  up  to  town  with 
us  next  week,  they  can  look  about  and  buy  some- 
thing to  send  to — to  Nancy.” 


258 


NANCIEBEL 


“Very  well,  very  well,”  said  Uncle  Alexander; 
and  away  lie  went  on  his  shuffling  pedestrianism 
again. 

About  half  an  hour  thereafter,  Mr.  Richard 
returned  to  Woodend — he  had  been  into  Strat- 
ford about  some  small  matters.  Cousin  Floss 
tripped  off  to  meet  him  in  the  hall. 

“Oh,  Cousin  Dick,”  said  she,  “do  you  know 
what  has  happened  now?  ” 

“Has  the  sky  fallen?  ” said  he.  “And  have 
you  caught  any  larks?  ” 

“Oh,  you  will  be  quite  sufficiently  surprised,” 
she  said  confidently.  “ For  papa  has  been  told 
everything ; and  he  has  not  cut  off  my  head ; no, 
his  plans  are  quite  different.  Do  you  know  the 
very  first  thing  you  and  I have  to  do  when  we  go 
up  to  town  next  week?  We  have  to  look  about — 
in  Bond  Street,  I suppose — for  something  very 
nice,  and  very  handsome,  and  very  useful;  and 
papa  and  your  mother  are  going  to  pay  for  it  be- 
tween them.  But  you  couldn’t  guess  what  this 
wonderful  thing  is  wanted  for — no,  you  couldn’t.” 
“What,  then?  ” he  demanded. 

“Why,  a wedding-present  for  Nanciebel!  ” 


THE  END. 


WALTER  BESANT’S  WORKS. 


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